


Ascendant: Prophet Eminent

by eveninglottie



Series: Ascendant [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/M, Fade Dreams as a Plot Device, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, always on the angst train, we're still on the angst train
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2018-09-20 09:12:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 54
Words: 308,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9484502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eveninglottie/pseuds/eveninglottie
Summary: From the ashes of Haven, the Inquisitor rises. As Roslyn's power grows and the world turns to her for salvation, something else stirs in the shadows—something ancient, that should never have been forgotten.





	1. Heaven Must Be an Iron Rose (Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> **Before you read** , I'd like to put a little disclaimer at the top of this fic: _this will not be a faithful retelling_. I will be changing a lot of details, some small, some large, to better allow me to tell the story I want to tell. It will be OC heavy, character-driven, and at times, entirely canon-divergent. I know that this can bother some people, so I am warning you ahead of time that if you don't like any of these things in the fics you read, you might not like this fic  <3
> 
> This is a continuation of [Ascendant: Herald Asunder](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9465923/chapters/21414806). 
> 
> Tumblr: **[eveninglottie](http://eveninglottie.tumblr.com/)**
> 
> [Youtube Playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S) // [Spotify Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/eveninglottie/playlist/4kRZyY0pYbWCVPuj2yTz5K)
> 
> [And if you want to see what Roslyn looks like, here is some lovely art of my baby <3](https://eveninglottie.tumblr.com/tagged/roslyn-art)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["The Silicone Veil" by Susanne Sundfør](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MyeFciT03i4&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&index=1)

Wind swept off the Nocen Sea to ghost over Sethia’s skin, raising gooseflesh on her arms and brushing strands of hair across her face. The night was still dark, the faint glow of the southern moon as it dipped below the horizon barely more than a memory as the sun chased it into morning. The water of the bay rippled in small waves. The only sign that the world moved around her. The slaves making their way through her halls, readying the estate for her long journey south, made no noise.

They knew the consequences of interrupting her early morning vigil.

Her legs protested as she rose, sore after a frozen hour of silent contemplation, but she paid them no mind. She had long grown accustomed to ignoring the physical aches of her body. The bowl of fried bread and olives placed on the table seemed to mock her. Soon, she would no longer need to bother with such a grotesque act, sustaining herself on the energies of the raw Fade like a true being of power. But until her work was complete, she must eat like the rest of the crawling masses.

She gathered her long hair and twisted it into a knot behind her head, the fragrance of lingering oil from the previous night’s bath lingering in her nostrils. Her mouth twitched only once as she schooled herself into acceptance. 

Soon this mortal cage would be broken open. 

A steady mote of divine silence hovered in the back of her mind—a comfort, a reminder to be patient. Her god would see her transformed. Her god would lead her to her true place atop the new world order.

She turned to the doorway. A slave stood beside the polished onyx frame, his eyes downcast and firmly fixed on the floor in front of him.

Sethia flicked her fingers in permission. The slave moved forward quickly and silently, a piece of parchment held in his hand. She took it without a glance, as the slave dutifully turned and left. Another flick of her fingers and a candle burst to life on the table.

She swallowed a gulp of water. It slid down her throat and swirled in her empty stomach. The note was etched in small, elegant handwriting that made her fingers clench as soon as she recognized it.

> _My dear Conductor of the Choir of Silence,_
> 
> _I leave with my people at first light to oversee the final placement of the spell framework. I trust that you were thorough in your design, but I am a nervous man at heart. I could not let it rise without seeing for myself the extent of your prowess. I shall meet you in Emerius when you arrive at the end of the month. Hopefully, I will have everything ready for you and our lord._
> 
> _Your gracious attendant, as always,_
> 
> _Architect of the Works of Beauty_

Sethia’s teeth ground together as she stared at the scrawling signature. The arrogant fool would find nothing amiss. The idea that he had left without her, that he would be the first to reach the City of Chains and look upon her work made her blood boil. The paper dissolved in her hand, tendrils of whispering black smoke trailing into the air around her fingers.

She had no choice but to change her plans. She would leave today.

A shifting of sheets and a soft exhale of breath behind her intruded on her thoughts. 

Sethia did not turn as she listened to the man rise, fine silk flowing over smooth skin and the quiet beating of his heart under it all. She ate slowly, still standing with her back to the room. Even from this distance, the steady thud of blood pumping through his flesh spoke of weakness. Feet padded across the marble floor. A hand pressed to her upper back.

“You seem tense,” the man said, threading his hands around her waist and kissing her neck.

“It is nothing,” she said, finishing a single piece of bread. “You should not have risen.”

The hands around her waist tensed. A small hitch of fear in his breath.

“My apologies,” he murmured, withdrawing his arms and stepping to a respectful distance he should have held from the start. “I did not mean to disturb you, mistress.”

Sethia stared out across the water, her eyes tracing the crescent line of the bay. She imagined the swaying willow trees along the bank and the quiet clicking of sand beetles in the early morning chill. Her world was fragile—a small thing balanced on the edge of a knife. The quaintness of her home, the soft whispers of long grass, the steady break of water upon bleached sand.

_A facade_ , she thought, turning at last to face the man.

She knew he was beautiful—she would not have been sent anything less than the finest bedwarmer in the Northern Province. Her petty lords knew better than to tempt her anger. But there was a dullness to his features, a predictability in his rosy cheeks and curling golden hair. “Come here.”

He moved at once, eyes wide and attentive. On another day, Sethia might have smiled at the quick response, but her mind was already wrapped up in thoughts of the new world, so close now she could almost touch it.

“When your family gave you to me, you said you were eager to serve, that nothing would give you greater pleasure than ensuring my happiness.” She paused, watching the color rise up his neck and blot his cheeks as fear pulsed under his papery skin. “How do you think you have fared?”

His lips trembled. “I have always striven to serve you as best I could, mistress.”

Sethia tilted her head, catching one golden curl in her hand and twisting it behind his ear. “As best you could,” she mused, studying his fine blue veins. _So fragile. So weak._ “And yet you are, and can never be more than, _human_. Your best is lacking.”

His eyes were wide, frozen. She brought her hand back and slashed one finger through the air.

The skin of his neck parted like a flower opening its petals. Blood welled, waiting for her permission to fall. He was frozen by more than his own fear. Sethia turned up her palm, and the blood answered, trailing through the air in a lazy swirl, coalescing into an opaque mirror that revolved in front of her face. The man twitched once, a small, disgusting gurgle bubbling out from his lips. She frowned in distaste and pulled harder, the gash on his neck opening wide. Sethia listened to the stuttering beat of his heart, and heard when it finally, blissfully, stopped.

The body slumped to the floor, brushed aside until one of her slaves could dispose of it.

Sethia turned to the disk as certainty settled into the base of her spine. The divine silence in the back of her mind, always there, ever watchful, brightened, and the blood rippled. It spun faster as she poured her will into it, reaching through the Veil to call on her master, her lord.

The room faded to a dull shimmer as Sethia became aware of a vast, all-knowing presence. The blood disk slowed, rippling slightly at the edges until it was a calm surface. 

A faceless voice echoed through her mind. _“How soon you reach for me after our last lesson, Sethia. I thought you had developed more patience after these long years of my tutelage.”_

She forced herself not to react, to keep her face respectfully downcast. Her master despised weakness and thought it the hallmark of a feeble mind to let one’s emotions show. “My apologies, my lord, but I thought you would wish to know that the Architect will arrive soon to the City of Chains. He taunts me with his insistence on overseeing the construct, thinking, no doubt, to take what glory is yours by right for his own master.”

Urthemiel had never struck Sethia as a particularly ambitious god, no matter his majesty. That his high priest was so interfering was not his fault. All the gods were worthy of her reverence, of course, but it was Dumat alone who claimed her allegiance.

A prick of amusement filtered through the mote of silence in the back of her mind. _“The Architect is eager to see my brethren and I released from our prison. Why should he not strive to ensure our success?”_

Sethia did not allow herself to indulge in the frustration of such meager praise for another god’s chosen.

_“I think it wise we remind him of who it was that brought my mandate to him in the first place, don’t you?”_

A small smile stretched across her lips. “Of course, my lord.”

_“You are my scion, Sethia. I would see you command this endeavor in my name. For in the world after, your place is assured.”_

Pride swelled through her and her cheeks flushed. She bowed her head. “My lord is generous. I am unworthy of such trust.”

_“You are,”_ he mused, his echoing voice barely more than a whisper, _“but that is no fault of yours. Humanity is a parasite. It must be elevated. Only then will you truly know the power locked behind my prison gates.”_

Tears pricked at Sethia’s eyes. “I am, forever, your humble servant.”

_“Then take my blessing.”_

A tendril of blood snaked out of the disk, pressing against the tear in the Veil, and touched her forehead. Power flowed through the connection, raw and pulsing with the certainty of what she must do.

_“I await further news,”_ her lord whispered, withdrawing back to his realm of shadow and darkness.

Sethia waited, letting the power of her blood sacrifice hum pleasantly in her limbs. It was the only time her mortal cage felt right, brimming with the life-essence of someone else, buoyed by the touch of her master’s vast power. Soon, she would lose this, but the sacrifice would be worth all this and more. It would be worth the world.

She shrugged off her thin shift and began dawning the armored robes of her station. Black iron threaded with runic markings, the legacy of her people when they landed on these shores so long ago, guided by the gods through the old ways of blood and sacrifice. Constellations of their divine presence ran down her ribs, circled her wrists, held her spine straight and firm. Thick velvet of richest black draped over her shoulders. 

She placed the mantle of the Conductor of the Choir of Silence on her brow. 

Power. That was the difference between her and the empty shell on the ground. The power to change her own fate. The power to change the world. 

She took a deep breath and snapped her fingers.

A slave appeared in the doorway.

“I leave for Emerius. Send my retinue and house after me. I expect them to arrive within the month.”

“Yes, mistress,” the slave whispered, and disappeared.

Sethia strode to the corner of her rooms, the sun’s first light breaking over the calm seas and spearing across the black marble floor. With a wave of her hand, a heavy tapestry pulled back from the wall to reveal an ornately carved mirror. It glowed faintly, twelve feet tall and circled in an ancient language she had never been able to learn, for every time she gazed upon it, her eyes blurred and her mind strained as she tried understand the subtle curve of each letter.

Understanding was not necessary for power, but some small part of her still wanted it. The part of her she had long tried to strangle under the faithful tutelage of her master. 

“Dumat be praised,” she whispered, and the mirror’s surface blossomed into a riot of color. 

It faded fast, but the hum and tang of the magic within the enchanted glass held. The mirrors had been a gift from Dumat, another token of his favor. No other high priest had access to them, for she alone held his confidence. It made her smile, to think of the Architect’s shock when she met him at their construct a month early. She might even reach Emerius before him.

Readying herself for the hard trek through the world on the other side of the mirror, Sethia closed her eyes, and steadied herself with the thought that soon, this world would burn in the remaking of her paradise. Soon, her lord would walk free again and Thedas would know true enlightenment.

She stepped through the mirror’s surface, toward the dawn of a new world.


	2. A Trick of Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Salvation" by Gabrielle Aplin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wWttGChn5ZE&index=2&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S)

The soft whistling was the first thing to come to Roslyn over the darkness.

A faint tumble of rock, a shifting of snow. She had the faint impression of a vast, echoing cavern stretching above her. 

_Falling—I was falling_.

She’d fallen through a hole in the ground. 

_No_ , she’d thrown herself through the hole. To escape the avalanche.

Her left palm seared with heat and she cried out as her lungs blazed. Her voice echoed through the cavern. Tears welled on her frozen eyelids. She tried to move her hand only to find it trapped. Gritting her teeth, she tugged, skin tearing as she pulled it out from under a rock. She felt along her chest gingerly, trying to find the source of the pain. Just under her left breast, she grazed a torn patch of leather and gasped as she brushed bruised skin.

Her head swam. She bit her tongue to stop herself from shrieking. Shards of ice and rock shifted under her when she tried to move, digging into her shoulders. Her left shoulder spasmed, and the memory of an arrow came to her. She’d been shot. Again. 

Slowly, it all came back—sending the Chargers up the mountain, fighting the archdemon, facing off against…

_Coryphea_ , she realized with a jolt. 

The Elder One had tried to take the mark.

She opened her eyes, blinking against the low light of the cavern. She craned her neck as her sight adjusted. Her chest protested, but she propped herself onto her elbow and stared down at the mark.

A faint green glow pulsed over the glyph etched into her palm. At her attention, it flashed, and she had to close her eyes against the sudden brightness.

Something warm and soft pressed against her palm, a rumble coursed through her body. She couldn’t see the full outline of the wolf, but she could feel it. It was different from before, when the wolf had been forcing itself from her mark and acting apart from her. It had been a separate, but connected entity, an intruder in the back of her mind—so removed from the comforting familiarity now filtering through her thoughts.

_Fancy meeting you here,_ she thought with a grin.

Humor, of all things, flashed in her mind, and the wolf pressed more intently against her palm. If she concentrated, she could even feel its warm breath on her cheek, see its speckled white fur as a ghostly image in her mind’s eye.

_You came back._

The wolf seemed relieved, grateful, confused—it hadn’t meant to leave. It couldn’t find her. It was—struggling for words, or emotions, still confused with its sentience as much as she was.

_We can teach you to speak when we get out of this cave, all right?_ she thought with a grimace, opening her eyes again and peering around.

The cavern was hundreds of feet high and covered in stalactites of shining black ice. Her stomach flipped when she saw that some of them had broken in the avalanche and were shattered across the ground around her. A few feet to either side and she would have been speared through the chest. She lay in an indentation of rubble and snow. It seemed her wall of force had shielded her from most of the debris.

_Fuck, it worked,_ she thought with a shaky exhale.

She slowly shifted her legs. A few ribs were cracked. The pulsing wave of pain every time she moved told her something had been punctured inside her stomach. Blood was seeping from the wounds in her shoulder and her side. Her tabard was holding some pressure against the knife wound, but where the arrow had ripped through her shoulder, there was nothing to stop it. She didn’t know how long she’d been unconscious, but from the trembling in her limbs and the pounding in her temples, she’d lost a lot of blood. Too much?

Breathing slowly, she sat up and pulled her legs free of the broken rock and snow. She twisted and bit into the soft cotton of her undershirt, tearing her sleeve off. Tying a makeshift bandage around her shoulder, she bit back a laugh as she stared down at herself. _Maker’s balls, I’m going to bleed out before I can stand up._

She braced herself against the ground and slid her feet under her, shaking. Her balance shifted almost immediately, but a wave of strength held her in place before she could fall.

_That you?_ she thought through gritted teeth.

It gave her a mental shrug.

“This is so weird,” she coughed, her ragged voice echoing off the walls. “Right, standing. Standing is good. Let’s try walking.”

The wolf emanated a smug kind of amusement.

_Oh, wonderful, you’ve got a sense of humor,_ she thought with a laugh, holding her left arm against her stomach and peering into the darkness as she left the center of the cavern.

As far as she could tell, she was in one of the underground tunnels that ran beneath Haven, though it clearly hadn’t been used in many years. Beyond the circle of debris, there were old barrels, some of them broken, some covered in ice. 

She looked up at the cavern ceiling, for some sign of the hole she’d fallen through. It was entirely black. Either the moon had been obscured by clouds, or the hole had been sealed by the avalanche. A sudden breeze whipped past her, and she turned to see a long, winding corridor branching off from the cavern that stretched into the darkness.

She shouldn’t be able to see anything, let alone the outline of the corridor, as the light from her mark was so faint. More help from the wolf? Or—a side effect of binding the mark? _Questions for another time._

She shuffled forward. Her mark illuminated the rough stone path, simple and bare except for a few signs that people had once occupied the tunnels. 

The wolf rumbled again, a reassuring presence in her chest. Heat spread through her body. The tension in her chest released and she let out a small sigh, as if she’d been holding her breath. The pain in her side lessened and she stopped working her way along the wall to stare down at her hand.

Her armor was drenched with blood, in some places stiff with frost, but the throbbing heat had faded to an uncomfortable pulsing. Her left hand shimmered with green, sending waves of liquid light across the stone walls. Slowly, she peeled her fingers back from her chest, no longer shaking from the cold, and took a deep, measured breath. The pain in her ribs still surfaced, but the wound in her side did not protest.

It no longer hurt, but it didn’t feel like real skin either. Carefully, she pulled aside the flap of leather where the knife had cut through her tabard.

A muted, almost pearlescent green covered her skin where the wound had been, the same sheen of green light that had encased her hand just like in Redcliffe, when the wolf had grown bold. It was the same ethereal lightness, as if her body had faded.

The wolf was silent, as if it were watching her reaction. It held no hostility, or frustration—it wasn’t waiting for an opening to trike.

_Do you know what you’re doing?_ Roslyn deliberately thought, trying not to let her anxiety slip through their connection.

The wolf cocked its head in confusion. She could almost imagine the look of concern in its eyes.

At a thought, she twisted her hand, wincing as her shoulder protested, and grazed her fingers above her heart. The same slow warmth bled into her injury and the green from her hand transferred to her skin without resistance. Surprise radiated from the wolf—so it hadn’t been conscious of what it was doing.

“This is insane,” Roslyn breathed. She rolled her shoulders experimentally, waiting for another lance of pain, but it never came. “We won’t bleed to death,” she whispered, unable to keep the hiccup of laughter from her words as she took a step forward. “So that’s a plus. Although if I turn into an emerald cloud, you and I are going to have words.”

The wolf continued to give her a hesitant, if hopeful, thread of concern. It seemed nervous.

She continued on through the twisting underground passages. While she could walk without much difficulty, the pain in her ribs was growing difficult to ignore. The wolf’s anxiety bled into her own, its confusion. For a newly formed…entity, she supposed this must be very confusing. Spectral manifestations of spiritual energy probably didn’t have to deal with broken ribs.

A wave of freezing air slammed against her face and she stumbled, bracing herself against the stone wall.

She closed her eyes and breathed purposefully, trying to calm the sudden flurry of her heart. What had been dim, rough stone was now cast in a silvery glow. She squinted into the wind. It wasn’t moonlight, but snow spreading across the ground before her. At the end of the tunnel, maybe fifty feet away from her, was a wide opening. Snow blew across the entrance at such a severe angle, it looked as if the world had fallen on its side.

Her heart thudded, hope fluttering in the frantic echoes of her chest. She had no idea where she was, or how far she’d traveled from Haven, but the open air made the fear curling inside her throat lessen. She could at least leave the tunnels.

Fear kept her rooted in place, however, as she imagined walking into the storm, stumbling through snow and wind and Maker knew what else. The Inquisition had fled into the mountains, but where, and for how long, she had no idea. She’d sent them away without thought of following after, because she knew she was going to die.

That she hadn’t… That she had somehow survived an archdemon and an ancient magister…

Her stillness broke at a tendril of the wolf’s excitement. Her eyes moved where it directed, no longer bothered by the freezing wind and the swirling dark, and focused on a small light hundreds of feet up the mountain.

She could barely see it even with the wolf’s help. She half-imagined she was going mad with the fantasy. But it was there—a flame or torch, holding fast even in the storm, sitting between two thin, dark shapes that must have been trees.

_Blessed are the steadfast,_ Roslyn recited as she stumbled doggedly on, deciding to rely on the most monotonous of canticles to keep her moving, _who guard themselves against fear in face of the Void_. 

The packed snow enveloped her legs as she stumbled forward into the storm of sleet and snow, nearly up to her waist as she moved from the safety of the crumbling stone entrance to the storm. She trudged through the drifts, wincing every time her ribs protested, ignoring the biting chill creeping up over her feet and legs. She tried to keep the flickering torch in her sight at all times, afraid that if she looked away, it would vanish.

It took her nearly an hour to reach the sparse trees that dotted the base of the mountain, even though the distance couldn’t be more than a mile. Her chest burned and her throat was so tight she’d kept her mouth shut for fear of choking on her own breath. The wolf was there, hovering in her consciousness as if trying to help. Its magic throbbed along her skin now where it had coated her injuries.

The first mark of the Inquisition’s passage was a burnt ring of chopped wood, nearly buried by the snow. The wolf saw it first, pulling at her attention. She closed her eyes in relief. 

The Inquisition had gotten out of Haven _._

_Blessed are the enduring, the pillars of His will._

She found a broken wagon after another two hours of slow and tortured climbing, ice already forming on the broken spokes of its wheel. She moved around it and kept fighting through the snow, afraid that if she stopped, she would never start again. Once, she caught a whiff of something that might have been smoke, but she craned her head only to find an impenetrable landscape of snow.

The sound of howling wafted above the wind from time to time, but she thought she must be imagining it. With the wolf in her head and her mind scrambling for coherence, she was starting to hear things.

The cold leeched into her chest every time she took a breath, snapped at her fingers every time she brushed frozen tears from her eyes. Her boots were like rocks, covered with a layer of packed snow, and her legs protested in vain every time she lifted one foot only to plunge it back through the endless drifts. Where the wolf had coated her skin with its magic, it stung with a slow-burning cold fire.

_Blessed are the meek, for the Maker chose them above all others to bear the burdens of the many._

The wolf was quieter now, giving her fleeting reminders of its presence. She couldn’t tell if it was afraid, or concerned for her, or if it thought she was stupid for deciding to climb up a mountain when she was already half-dead.

Her mark cast dizzying green patterns against the ground in front of her, spiraling like snowflakes in her wake. Every shallow breath dragged past her chapped and bleeding lips, open now as they had long since stopped trembling. Her eyes had almost frozen shut. She kept them down to avoid as much of the wind as she could. Her feet sank again and again into the snow.

_Blessed are they who hold His truth in their hearts._

The pain in her ribs dimmed to a distant, throbbing ache. The fog in her mind cleared as the wolf pressed itself on her in comfort. It seemed larger than it should be. Or had she grown smaller?

_The faithful and pure, who know the Maker’s love._

Something flickered at the back of her mind—had the wolf moved? A sparkling of dark light under her thoughts, shifting gently behind her like shimmering rain. Almost like wind chimes. But silent. Soft.

_Blessed are they who accept his light._

She was so tired.

She coughed, the sound a swift bark in sudden silence. She looked up for the first time in hours.

The storm was gone, replaced by an eerie, oppressive stillness. 

Her breath ghosted out in front of her. 

Her mind raced to understand a world that was not wind and snow. 

Her eyes trailed up the incline of the mountain to hold on the vast, empty sky. She’d nearly reached the peak. She hadn’t realized. Her gaze lingered on the blackness above. Where were the stars? 

_Where is the light?_

She stood as still as the air around her—before her knees gave out and she tipped back into the snow. She gazed up at the sky, eyelashes crusted with ice and so heavy she wanted to let them fall. The black stared down at her.

“Remember,” a voice whispered.

The stars? How could she forget the stars? 

Roslyn felt oddly warm. Her breathing slowed. A piece of her marveled at the utter stillness of it all. She was part of the mountain, just another witness to the night sky. But it wasn’t her sky. It wasn’t hers…

The wolf at the back of her mind grew. She wondered if it would die with her. She was tired. So very tired. She’d lost the sign, the light, the stars. Wherever her friends were, they were too far to help her now.

“Stand up,” that same voice whispered.

But she ignored the voice, drawing again on the Chant. 

_My creator, judge me whole_. 

Blackness pulled at her mind, her soul, urging her to rise and join the night, to give into its pull. 

A voice like wind chimes and the howling rage of the sea whispered, “Get up.”

Her eyelids shut as if they belonged to someone else. 

_Find me well within your sight._

The small part of her that still burned inside her chest flickered.

The blackness stalled just above her. _Odd_ , she thought, when the sky slowly brightened with fire. 

Her palm tingled. A flickering voice screamed defiance to her from across an endless distance. White light skittered across her mind and she gasped as pain splintered into her chest. 

It was horrible, burning—scooping her out and removing the black wrapped around her like tendrils only to replace it with furious, burning light. She shrieked, her voice echoing off the mountain peaks. A pulse of energy thrummed in her chest. She jerked upright, the illumination taking form in front of her eyes.

Wings.

Marvelous, divine _wings_ made of feathered steel snapped into being. Her hand shot out in front of her, green energy spiraling and mixing with the brilliant silver smoke drifting off the body attached to those wings.

Tears burned down Roslyn’s frozen cheeks. Her chest ached with the burning kernel of light.

The winged woman glared at her through a halo of silver and white. “Get up, Roslyn.”

Her voice crashed like the waves upon rocks and Roslyn sobbed in its wake. Starlight roared in her chest and salt-tinged air coated her tongue, nearly made her choke with it. Thunder cracked down her spine.

“Not far yet,” the winged woman said, her voice at once soothing and breaking her in half. “Hold on for a few more minutes.”

“I can’t,” Roslyn whimpered. “I— _can’t_.”

The winged woman’s eyes glowed deeper, swirling novas of burning black, like the molten night sky. “You can.”

It wasn’t encouragement. It was a command.

The fractured star leapt and Roslyn flipped forward onto her hands and knees. She coughed and blood painted the snow. Her arms trembled and she nearly collapsed.

Hands of burning ice gripped her shoulders and dragged her upright. Roslyn gasped as she brushed against the winged woman’s power. It was more real than anything she had ever touched before, more than the Breach, more than what lay beyond in that menacing black maw, more than the slithering darkness of the Elder One. There and gone and burning in the span of one infinite moment.

Roslyn stood in the snow, sobbing and shaking, clutched in the embrace of the demon, the _spirit_ , who’d come to her all those months ago in Calenhad’s Foothold.

The winged woman’s hand moved to her chin, cupping her face and turning it up to look her directly in the eyes. Behind the white corona of light, Roslyn saw stark black eyes and flowing white hair. A face made for war and rage.

“I don’t remember,” Roslyn choked, heart beating in her throat. The light clawed through her, shattering into something dark and solid at the back of her mind. Something vital, something important…

The winged woman’s expression shifted and the light dimmed. She looked sad, tired. Ancient fatigue dragged at her eyes. “You will,” she murmured, running her thumb along Roslyn’s chin in a comforting caress before releasing her grip. She took a step back, the light from her wings flaring as another peel of thunder sounded in Roslyn’s mind. “You must.”

“Tell me,” Roslyn begged, her marked hand reaching in a futile gesture to stop her, to make her explain. “Please.”

The winged woman’s eyes flashed to the green light, an expression of fury forging her again in steel and ice. Anger seared across Roslyn’s mind with a howling shriek, and she was gone.

Roslyn stood, the remnants of the winged woman’s power trailing off her skin with tendrils of silver and white smoke.

“Come back,” she choked in a broken, wrecked voice. She had ceased to be anything more than an ember, caught on the currents of wind the winged woman had left in her wake. “Come back—”

“I heard a shout,” someone called from a long distance away. Female, insistent, ringing with desperate hope.

The winged woman’s voice pierced through her confusion.

_“Move.”_

Roslyn jerked around without thought and launched herself up the mountain toward the voice. 

Dawn was breaking, orange and gold leeching into the black sky. Her breath was ragged and her heart thudded against her ribcage as her mind focused on it.

“Are you sure?” another voice called, this one male, and tired, and moving away from her.

Her mind didn’t stop to put names to the voices, but she knew them. They were still a long way off. Too far. Her chest burned. She pressed her hand to her side, blood gushing over her fingers. The wolf was gone.

The green of her mark sputtered. 

_No, no, Maker, please…_

White, arcane light crackled along her skin—the last corona of her aura in its death throws—as she scrambled over a large rock, not caring that she ripped a cut into her thigh.

If they left without her, if they didn’t find her…

“Wait,” a third voice said, clipped and unerringly calm. Roslyn’s heart leapt and slammed against her ribcage, as if it were trying to break loose. That voice—so familiar she could have recognized it half-dead. “I can feel—”

_Solas_.

The mountain ended in a break between two jagged spurs of black rock. She tripped and stumbled into one of them. Heat blossomed in her ribs. She blinked against the sudden brightness—the rising sun.

Six figures stood at the base of a small hill, nearly fifty yards away from her. 

Three of them were Inquisition soldiers dressed in the battered green and iron armor of scouts, huddled together and staring off in the opposite direction. Cassandra and Cullen stood close to one another, both turning to face her at the same time, but the last…

Solas’ eyes fixed on hers, and even across the hundred feet between them, she saw them widen.

Her mark pulsed, and the last spark of the magic granted to her by the winged woman vanished. She let out a soft exhale, a brief puff of steam, and her aura died.

Her knees buckled. Her vision went dark. She hit the snow and crumpled. Cold spread through her chest and legs until she couldn’t feel them anymore. Until she went completely, totally numb.

A gust of wind. A flare of familiar magic. Pressure on her shoulders, on her face—Solas’s voice.

Power thudded into her body, but she was already drifting. Her aura flickered—a whispering voice calling her home—before it died again. She heard frantic shouting, and a ripple ran through the ground, as if a great beast shifted under the mountain.

Another surge of power. Her eyes flashed open. She saw a pale face and gold freckles, eyes the color of a turning storm. Her mouth twitched, but the black dragged at her focus and her eyelids closed again.

“No,” Solas snapped in a voice that sounded too sharp, too short.

Breath hitched into a sob. Roslyn tried to reach her hand out to Cassandra, but it wouldn’t move. Cullen shouted a question in a shaken voice. Another man answered him.

By the smallest inching back, a steady, forceful hand pulled her from the edge of darkness. It found every last tendril of her aura and gathered them together thread by thread. She tried to help, tried to focus on her own aura as if it were a living, breathing thing, willing the last remnants of her strength into it, just as she had the wolf. 

Solas’s breathing turned hard, brushing against her face in ragged gusts.

Roslyn forced her eyes open. Deep blue-green energy pulsed over her chest, bleeding from long, trembling fingers. Her aura was too weak. It wouldn’t respond to his attempts to rekindle it, to remake it. She’d expended herself in closing the Breach, and again in the fight with Coryphea. She’d dragged herself up the mountain on borrowed magic and will alone. If she let him, he would pour all of himself into reviving her.

It would kill him.

That thought, coupled with the screaming, pulsing tendril of light in her chest that would not, _could_ not, die, gave her the final push.

Roslyn gasped as the magic connected and surged back into her limbs. It crawled over her skin and sank into her veins. There was nothing except the storm blue of his eyes, the whispering of his aura as it ghosted down her spine, the soft smoke of pine and the sweet bite of peppermint.

She reached up and caught his hand, forcing it back with a push of her own magic. His aura cut off, echoing back inside his chest.

Solas’s mouth opened and closed, his breath ragged, sweat beading on his temples.

Roslyn lurched upright, coughing for air as her aura snapped and thudded along with her heart. Blood spattered onto Solas’s chest and neck. “That’s going to stain,” she croaked, letting her forehead fall onto his shoulder.

The only sound was their ragged breathing. She didn’t know if the thudding in her ears was her heart or his.

His hand tightened around her shoulders, moving up her spine to hold the back of her neck. “ _Ar borath ma. Ar tarenas borath ma_.”

Roslyn breathed in the fresh, smoky smell of him, sagging into his chest and curving her head without thought to press her mouth to his neck. “I told—,” she murmured, her voice breaking as she coughed again. Iron coated her lips. Solas tensed. “I told you not to swear at me in elven.”

The hand on his chest twisted. He threaded his fingers through hers and squeezed. It was so quick, she could almost believe she imagined it, before he leaned away from her. “I can’t carry her.”

Boots crunched softly through the snow and strong hands eased Roslyn out of Solas’ grip. The moment she left his embrace, she shivered, remembering the cold. Her fingers slipped out of his and she reached, forgetting that others were present, that she was still close to death.

Solas knelt unmoving in the snow, his eyes trained on her as she was carried away. Some part of her cringed at the image. He looked broken, kneeling and surrounded by a circle of her blood, red coating his hands and neck.

She wanted to comfort him, but the longer she struggled to keep her eyes open, the harder it was to remember why it was so important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to remind everyone that, most of the time, I will not be adding in translations for any languages that Roslyn herself does not understand. As everything else is written from her perspective (with the exception of the pro- and epilogues), with her limited knowledge and awareness of the world, it would feel strange for me to add in context that she doesn't have. I've worked with the wiki on Elven Language and my own very rudimentary attempts at a conlanging to flesh out the language, but for the most part, all of this is made up, and I will ask that you just accept that nothing makes sense if you actually have a grasp on linguistics <3


	3. This Broken Earthly Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Satellite Call" by Sara Bareilles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=stmjb9EHzg0&index=3&t=0s&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S)

Roslyn sat in an overcrowded tent somewhere in the Frostback Mountains while the Inquisition argued around her, trying her best not to scream. 

The table in front of her was covered with lists of supplies, those they had and those they needed, how many wounded had survived the Battle for Haven and how many were still unaccounted for. A crumpled, water-stained map of Ferelden and Orlais stretched across the center like a grim reminder of its former place at the back of Haven’s chantry. A place that was now buried under ten feet of snow. 

She traced a black knot on the side of the rough table, a hastily grabbed piece of furniture as the Inquisition fled the burning ruins of Haven. She kept her eyes down, trying to tune out the steady throb of pain in her limbs while paying attention to the conversation taking place around her.

When she had awoken two days ago, she’d barely been able to sit up straight let alone stand. One of Vivienne’s healers had done her best, but while the wounds of the fighting had healed, there was nothing to be done about her fatigue from overcasting. Her legs and back still ached, perched as she was on a rickety stool. Everyone had been tip-toeing around her, insisting she rest, hovering. She’d finally shouted down Cassandra that morning when she’d been told, once again, that the council meeting had been delayed until she was feeling stronger. She could at least walk around the camp. Or sit at a fucking table while the rest of them fought over what they should do now that they were stuck in the middle of nowhere.

The Inquisition couldn’t afford to wait for her to get better. They were existing on borrowed time as it was.

“And when the food runs out and we’re stranded in the middle of the Frostback Mountains, what are we going to do then?” Cullen snapped, his voice strangled. He had already been reprimanded once by Josephine for shouting, though Roslyn thought the woman was fighting a losing battle. The tent walls were not thick enough to stop their argument from reaching the camp outside. 

“Your solution is to march back?” Leliana muttered. “There is nothing left in Ferelden. Haven is buried. Would you have us dig up the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes as well?”

“She is right, Commander,” Josephine said in a clipped, forced calm. “We must call on Orlesian aid.”

They’d been circling around this point for nearly an hour, each time getting more and more angry with each other.

“Why?” Cullen asked as if the very suggestion offended him to his core. “We have a formal alliance with the King of _Ferelden_ , not Orlais. It’s time we reminded him what he owes—”

“None of this will matter if the Elder One returns,” Dorian said with a snort. “Really, it’s like you all forgot we were nearly roasted to death.”

“Why is he here?” Cullen barked.

“Because I asked him to be,” Roslyn said, voice hoarse and without emotion. “Just like I asked everyone else to be here.”

She kept her eyes down, but she could feel everyone watching her. This waiting, this tension, was almost as bad as seeing their outright panic. She forced herself not to turn her head, not to look at the figure standing beside Cassandra. Solas had not taken his eyes off Roslyn since she’d entered the tent, but she couldn’t look at him. 

She was having a hard enough time remaining composed as it was.

“We should contact King Alistair,” she said, slowly. “If only to warn him. We have no idea what Coryphea will do now that she—failed.”

Her marked hand hung in a sling, but it clenched just the same. Roslyn hadn’t the energy to argue with the healer at the time, though it was starting to become a nuisance. 

She frowned as faint green light sputtered under the sheer white cotton. The wolf shifted and sent her a soothing thread of comfort. It had been difficult to keep hidden her reactions to the wolf in the past two days, preoccupied as she was with pain and fatigue. She’d nearly spoken aloud a few times. What would the Inquisition do, if they realized their Herald was mad and talking to a specter in the back of her mind?

Everyone tensed at the show of light, but she ignored them. “We can’t go back, Cullen. There’s nothing left.”

“Agreed,” Leliana said quickly, as if she could trace the thread of Roslyn’s thoughts—the wreckage of Haven, the burned wood and scorched stone that covered close to a thousand bodies. There would be time to see…what was left, but they didn’t have the resources, or the will, for it now.

“Any letters to Orlais will take too long—weeks, if we’re lucky,” Cullen said slowly, trying to keep his voice calm. “We don’t have time to sit and wait.”

“I think we shall have to wait, Commander.” Vivienne’s voice rang clear and crystalline as she shifted in her seat, brought her hands to rest over her crossed legs. Roslyn caught Cullen’s tension out of the corner of her eye. On any other occasion, she might have smiled at the look of forced calm on his face. “My closest friend is nearly two hundred miles away, and I am still not sure that she has the funds to house such a large number of refugees. We would do better with Comte Gerard in Lieffe.”

Vivienne looked unfazed and firm, one of the only people to act as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. It had been Vivienne who had coordinated the safe departure of the rebel mages alongside Fiona. Vivienne who had directed the templars to hold the southern wall and thereby allow countless more refugees and villagers to escape into the chantry. Roslyn would never admit it, but the sheer tenacity of Vivienne’s refusal to bend to the same fear that made the rest of their hands shake and their eyes flash to the sky was an unexpected comfort.

“The Dales are currently embroiled in the Orlesian Civil War, Madame Vivienne,” Josephine said calmly. “What aid the Comte might offer us would come too late.”

“Why not ask the dwarves for help?” Dorian said, his voice almost gratingly optimistic. “They seem to be the closest political power, and they certainly have the square footage.”

Varric shook his head, his expression dark. “Orzammar hasn’t treated with a foreign power south of the Waking Sea in over a hundred years. Bhelen might be a bit more open-minded than his predecessors, but we’d still be lucky if the Assembly didn’t laugh as they threw us out on our asses.”

“Surely if we explain the situation,” Cassandra reasoned, tearing her gaze from Roslyn for one blessed moment, “people across Southern Thedas will rush to our aid. We survived an attack by one of the original darkspawn. That should count for something, shouldn’t it? The Chantry will act. They must.”

The group turned their attention back to Roslyn.

“Will they, though?” Dorian shifted behind her, and she could almost picture his incredulous frown. “I’m still not entirely sold on this madwoman’s claim that she breached the Golden City. Every once in a while some fool will pop up in the Magisterium, saying he’s the long lost grandnephew of Archon Hessarian. I’ll give this to the old bat—it’s new one, claiming to be among the most reviled group of Tevinter magisters ever to walk the earth, but it’s not wholly out of the realm of possibility that she’s simply insane.”

_Know the might that is Coryphea, and rejoice_. 

The woman’s booming voice echoed through Roslyn’s mind, and she clenched her jaw.

“She’s real, Dorian,” Roslyn murmured, “or she’s something—else. I’ve never felt power like hers.” She swallowed a rising lump of dread. “And even if she isn’t one of the original magisters, that dragon would be enough to warrant the same concern.”

“Was it truly an archdemon, my lady?” Josephine asked.

“I don’t know,” she murmured, looking to Leliana. “You seemed convinced.”

“I was,” she answered, her eyes impenetrable, “and if this Coryphea is truly a darkspawn, I think we should ready ourselves for what comes next.”

The tent fell silent. Another Blight. 

“Yeah,” Varric croaked, grimacing, “about that. There’s something you all should know.”

Roslyn met his gaze, confused to see guilt shining back at her.

“I know that thing is a darkspawn. Whether she’s one of the _first_ is beyond my level of understanding, but…” He looked away from Roslyn. “The Grey Wardens had her locked up for a few hundred years, so I’m guessing they know what they’re talking about.”

She stared, disliking the brittle shake of his voice. “How do you know that, Varric?” 

Varric didn’t look up as some of the color drained from his face. “I know,” he started, taking a short breath. “I know because I was one of the idiots who let her out.”

Silence entered the tent as everyone digested his words.

“What?” Cullen barked.

“We didn’t know. Thought it was some idiot group of Carta. None of us—”

“You…” Cullen’s eyes hardened, and he actually growled, “ _What_ did he do?”

Roslyn had never seen him so angry. Frustrated and bad at concealing his displeasure, sure, but never visibly furious.

“What did _who_ do?” Dorian asked incredulously. “I think the rest of us would like to—”

“You didn’t think to tell us this when she showed up?” Cassandra barked.

“I _did_ tell you, eight months ago in that stinking pit you called an interrogation room.” Varric ground his teeth, anger flashing behind his guilt. “I just didn’t give you the specifics at the time because it wasn’t relevant.”

Cassandra’s eyes went wide. “You _knew_ , and you said nothing?”

“Well, in all the free time we’ve had since the damn _dragon_ fell out of the sky—”

“I should have known that idiot friend of yours was to blame,” Cullen shouted. “That bloody—”

“Watch it, Curly,” Varric snapped, his voice uncharacteristically hard and cold.

As if on cue, her mark flashed, silencing whatever Cullen might have said in retort.

_Thanks_ , she thought to the wolf, who had been reading her rising frustration. She cleared her throat, and murmured, “The only chance this Inquisition has of surviving another day is if we stop snapping at each other. I know you’re all scared, but blaming each other for things beyond our control will solve nothing, especially when only half of us know what’s going on.”

Meeting Cullen and Cassandra’s gaze with a short glare, her temper rose. A small, petty part of her screamed that she should not be the one to do this, that she was weak and tired and done with playing parent to a group of children who hated each other. Why had she been handed the reins to this shit show? 

Taking a deep breath, she straightened despite the ache in her back, and turned purposefully toward Varric. “From, the beginning, please.”

His anger faded. He swallowed, eyes growing distant, and she could swear he looked afraid. “About ten years ago, a group of Carta assassins were sent after Garrett Hawke. You might know him as the Champion of Kirkwall. Or my _idiot friend_.” He shot a dark look at Cullen. “At first, we thought it was just because he’d started to make a name for himself, growing a reputation with the Smuggler’s Guild. Maybe he pissed off the wrong dwarf, or insulted the wrong house. No big deal, right? Well, when they started going after his family, it became a problem. They tried to kidnap his little sister, nearly pulled her from her bedroom before Hawke stepped in. Apparently, they were also going after his brother. He’s a warden, and was on his way to Kirkwall for his own family reunion when Hawke set out to make sure he was safe. We met up, learned they were after blood. Pretty typical cult shit, or so we thought.”

Roslyn’s eyebrows raised. He hardly ever spoke about the Champion, and she hadn’t asked him about it since their earliest days together in the Hinterlands, no matter her interest in the man who had helped liberate the Circles.

“I have—ties to some people in the Carta, or,” Varric let out a weak laugh, “I know where some of them drink. So, I made some inquiries, tracked them to this abandoned Warden fortress in the Vinmark Mountains.”

“You—,” Cassandra sputtered, cutting him off with a wide-eyed, incredulous frown, “you _did_ tell me about this.”

Varric let out a sharp laugh. “Isn’t that what I just said? Bit hypocritical to display your customary outrage at whatever comes out of my mouth without listening first, isn’t it?”

Cassandra blinked and shook her head. “I thought you were lying. The story—”

“Is still a mystery to most of us here,” Roslyn interjected, keeping her gaze fixed on Varric.

Varric sighed. “Well, long story short, the Wardens had locked this ancient darkspawn up after the First Blight, but the cage had been deteriorating for a while. Hawke’s dad, Malcolm, had been forced to renew the locks about a decade before, only Coryphea somehow managed to infect the minds of the wardens guarding the place. They’re the ones who gave the taint to the Carta and sent them after Hawke and his family.”

“The Champion released Coryphea from this prison?” she asked slowly, trying to understand. 

The Champion of Kirkwall had set free the woman who’d leveled Haven, who’d enslaved the Rebellion, and nearly turned the entire Templar Order into monsters. It was…inconceivable. 

“Of course not,” Varric dismissed with a shaky laugh. “We killed her.”

“Are you quite sure about that?” Dorian muttered.

“You think I don’t know how crazy this sounds?” Varric shot back. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, pacing as he shook his head. “Trust me, I have been wondering the same thing for the past two fucking days. We—well, _Hawke_ killed her. He beheaded her, stabbed her through the chest a few times, and the rest of us burned her fucking body. She was ashes when we left that Andraste-cursed prison.”

Roslyn stared at him, searching. He wasn’t lying. Varric might be a master storyteller, but he wasn’t good at lying when it came to himself and his own life. She could see how uncomfortable he was. If they’d killed her and burned her body, and she had somehow managed to survive…

“So…she figured out a way to survive decapitation, stabbing, and being burned,” Roslyn said slowly. “That’s not reassuring.”

“Did you speak to her, my lady?” Josephine asked in a small voice.

Roslyn looked up in surprise, dragged out of the memory of the black tendrils of magic wrapping around her hand, trying to rip the mark, the— _anchor_ from her by force. “She didn’t talk so much as pontificate. I swore a few times in between the screaming. It wasn’t exactly a productive conversation.”

“Did she reveal why she attacked, why she—,” Leliana started, her eyes bright and hard. “Did she say why she murdered the Divine?” There was pain in her eyes, and the urgent need to understand.

Roslyn wished she could give her something more than fear.

“She wants to enter the Black City again. She wants to reshape the world and become its new god.”

“But why the Divine?”

“I don’t know, Leliana.” Roslyn sighed, suddenly very tired. “Because if you want to become a god, it’d be a good idea to kill the most powerful figure of the religion you’re trying to break. She—” The idea of telling them what Coryphea had said, that the Maker wasn’t real, that it was all lies… She couldn’t. She still didn’t know if she believed it herself. “The amount of magic she needed to power the spell to create the Breach was immense. There must have been over five hundred people in the Temple of Sacred Ashes alone. She probably wanted to send a statement. Killing the Divine tipped the entire world into chaos, and she needed the mages and templars fighting again to corner them and build her army.”

She turned in her chair to Dorian, eyes flashing to Solas where he stood at the edge of the table. “She had an orb. I’m guessing this is the artifact she used to channel the power to create the Breach.”

Solas’s expression was locked behind a mask, but she saw his shoulders tense. She remembered him asking about such an artifact. So long ago it felt like another life. 

“Of course,” Dorian mused. “Magisters use them all the time. It’s—” He broke off, his eyes getting distant. “An orb, you say? What did it look like?”

“Black, ridged, and glowing red, like—a fingerprint. I’m assuming it’s connected to the red lyrium she’s decked herself in.”

Dorian frowned.

“She used it to try to take the anchor.”

At that, he raised an eyebrow. “Anchor?”

The wolf shifted behind her, a gentle brush against her consciousness. “The mark, I mean. She called it an anchor. She tried to use the orb to remove it.”

“She tried to remove the mark?” Cullen asked slowly. She knew exactly what he was thinking—that this kind of magic was beyond anything he’d seen in the Circle, beyond the ability of templars to control.

Roslyn nodded. “It didn’t work. I don’t think it can be removed anymore. She said that I’d—spoiled it.”

She didn’t mean to, but her eyes flashed to Solas at the memory of the binding. His face was unreadable, remote.

_There is no telling what consequences will come of binding the mark to you._

He’d told her as much, warned her against what would happen should she bind herself to the wolf. She hadn’t thought it would come back to bite her in the ass so soon.

“You held out against one of the original darkspawn,” Vivienne mused, her voice light, as if commending Roslyn on a particularly daring choice in dress. “My dear Herald, you are proving far more resilient than I gave you credit for.”

Roslyn held her gaze. If she didn’t know better, she could have sworn there was something like admiration in Vivienne’s eyes. The mirrored expressions of awe on everyone else’s face told her they all felt the same. She _had_ survived, but the relief was hollow. 

Panic lapped at her like an inevitable tide, and her mark spasmed. She was too tired to keep it from reacting to her own fear, too tired to try to explain to them all that the only reason she was alive was luck, and the intervention of the thing in her hand. 

Roslyn stood, bracing her good hand against the table as she settled herself against the wave of vertigo. Both Cassandra and Dorian stepped toward her, but she raised her head before they could offer her help.

“I know no one likes it,” she said, slowly, “but our best option might be reaching out to Orzammar. They’re the closest place that is somewhat fortified against another attack. We can’t wait for aid that might not come from Orlais or Ferelden.” Her nails dug into the wood as she straightened. “And we can’t risk staying out here without protection. I won’t bet the safety of the people we have left that the Elder One won’t come back for me. Right now we’re sitting in the middle of nowhere, open to anything with wings. An army might not be able to march into the mountains without us noticing, but that dragon can cripple us without even landing.”

The response on their faces was obvious, the hope that she would find them an answer. The Herald of Andraste had saved them once before, she would save them again. She had to.

“We’ll get through this,” she said as steadily as she could. “There’s a reason we got out, a reason we’re still here.” She forced herself to look up at meet their fear and expectation, even if she wanted to scream inside. “We’ve gotten this far. I’ll be damned if we don’t survive—if we don’t _thrive_. Not only do we owe it to ourselves, but we owe it to the people who aren’t here anymore.” She stopped before her voice could break, before the faces of all the dead could rear up and drown her, and turned away.

“Are you—,” Cassandra started, already at her side with her hands rising to help.

“Tired. Just tired.” She moved her arm out of Cassandra’s reach, unable to meet her gaze. “Don’t worry, I’m going back to my tent.”

Roslyn slipped out into the silent camp before anyone else could object. The cold air hit her face like a slap. She fought the urge to cough, trying not to remember the bone-deep chill that had paralyzed her on the side of the mountain. Her sling itched, and she rolled her shoulder once to try and loosen the joint as she side-stepped Inquisition soldiers and scouts hovering outside the council’s tent. _Trying to eavesdrop_ , she thought with a small nod as she passed Rylen sitting with a few other templars on the far side of the small fire. 

She scowled when a figure eased off one of the tent poles and walked over to her, relaxing when she recognized who it was. 

“You look terrible,” Derek said with a small smile, sliding his hands into his pockets and slowing down to keep pace with her as she walked through the lines of tents.

“I hate you.”

His smile widened. “I know. How did the meeting go?”

“I’m surprised you weren’t listening in.”

“That templar of yours gave me the evil eye. I thought I better not try my luck.”

Roslyn exhaled through her nose. “Rylen is not _my_ templar.”

“Does he know that?”

“Why do you insist on being a pain in my ass?”

“I’m trying to keep you grounded. Coming back from the dead is bound to give anyone a hero complex, and you’ve already got an ego the size of—”

“ _Derek_.”

He looked down at her, his smile fading. Like everyone else, his face was drawn. The circles under his eyes were more pronounced than they’d been in years. “Sorry,” he muttered, running a hand through his unruly brown hair. “I just—I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Seriously?”

“You know what I mean.”

They lapsed into silence as they approached her tent. It was smaller than she was used to in the field, but the majority of the larger tents were being used to house the injured. She was lucky she had one to herself at all.

“It’s my fault they’re all here,” she murmured, coming to a stop and looking back at the tents they’d passed. Some of them were illuminated with the soft light of a candle, but most were dark under the clear night sky. _There should be more_ , she thought, a tightness strangling her throat. “I don’t know how to help them.”

The wolf prodded her with its snout, sending her a small wave of comfort.

Derek stepped forward, giving her time to move away if she didn’t welcome the hug.

But she let him wrap his arms around her, allowing herself one brief moment of relief as her eyes burned with unshed tears.

“You’ll figure it out,” he muttered into her hair. “You always do.”

Roslyn swallowed back the urge to tell him he was wrong for putting such trust in her. He’d always followed her with such blind faith. She didn’t deserve it. She didn’t deserve it from anyone, not him, not the council, not the soldiers who thought she’d been chosen by Andraste and the Maker to guide them through the dark.

“You should take a bath, though,” he whispered loudly, making a show of sniffing her head and grimacing. “The smell might detract from your heroic aura.”

“Maker’s breath, Derek,” she shoved away from him, “you’re horrible.”

His grin was softened somewhat by the concern in his eyes. “Get some sleep, Rosie.”

She nodded, too tired to scold him for using the damned nickname. “That was the plan.”

He looked at her tent with a secret smile. “I think you have a visitor, as well. Little sneak crawled in after you left for your meeting.”

Roslyn took a breath and turned. “It’s all right,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

Derek shrugged and backed away. “Someone’s got to remind you you’re still a person, every now and again.”

Roslyn watched him go before slipping into her tent, wincing slightly as she bent. True to Derek’s warning, a thatch of blond hair and pointed ears was sticking out of her bed roll. She smiled slightly, nudging the small form with her boot before she pulled back the flap of blankets. “It seems I have a tree growing in my tent,” she mused. “How odd.”

Adi’s eyes peered up at her, glowing in the dim light of a solitary candle. “I can leave,” he murmured, his voice so small it made her heart break.

“No, no,” she said with a wave of her hand, blowing out the light as she crawled in beside him. “It’s all right. We might need to tell someone if you’re going to keep sneaking in here, though. People are getting worried about you.” She’d woken that morning to find him curled up beside her, face red from crying in his sleep.

It had happened sometimes in her Circle, at the end, before it all came crashing down, when the templars were cracking down and the apprentices were scared out of their minds. The littler ones would find their way into her room, needing something to hold onto in the night when the demons came and they couldn’t fight on their own.

Those first few days after her magic had awakened had been hard. She’d been terrified and confused and unable to keep from shaking in fear of it happening again. For mages unlucky enough to be triggered by grief or pain, the first few weeks were nearly impossible.

She knew exactly what Adaleni was going through.

“Shove over,” she grumbled as she settled down. Luckily, the bedroll was big enough for them both to fit. He shivered slightly at the cold night air. She wrapped her good arm around his shoulders and tugged him closer.

They lay in silence for a few minutes, his uneven breath the only sound in her small tent. She was drifting to sleep when he finally whispered, “How do you make the demons leave you alone?”

“You can’t,” she murmured after a while, deciding not to lie to him. “Not really. They’re going to keep coming for you as long as you live, Adi.”

“Then—” His voice hitched as moisture seeped onto her shoulder. “How am I—”

“They can only hurt you if you let them,” she whispered, tightening her grip over his slight form. “You have what they want, Adi—a life, a body. They’re jealous of you. And they will try to trick you and scare you into thinking you can’t beat them.” She swallowed the lump in her throat, trying to keep her voice steady. “They’re dangerous, but so are you. You’re the one with the power, little tree. Remember that, and you’ll be all right.”

It was a lie, but it was a comforting one. She couldn’t give him anything else.

She wondered then, if it was different for dreamers. If Adi was having trouble simply because of his violent awakening, or if he was like her. 

It wasn’t long before her eyes started to close again. When she finally succumbed to sleep, the frightened boy in her arms holding onto her as if he might drift away if he let go, it was to memories of a darkened corner in the shadow of a statue with outstretched hands, and a child’s whispered recitation of the Chant.


	4. Give Me Sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Nitesky" by Robot Koch](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D-aJfcYzct8&index=4&t=0s&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S)

Another day passed full of more meetings and more planning. The council ate itself in an endless circle of frustration and bickering, desperation clogging their tent like a fog. At the end of it all, Roslyn left the council tent on her own, unable to bear any more of the constant anger, the constant staring, the constant suggestions, the constant staring. 

People watched her as she walked through the camp. She tried to give them smiles, or at least alleviate some of the fatigue she knew must be visible in her expression. They were waiting for something—another miraculous recovery. Another improbable victory. Another sign that she was truly chosen to lead them.

She’d heard catches of their whispers. If the days after the Conclave had been bad, the renewed conviction that she was blessed by Andraste after the fall of Haven was all that was holding them together.

She wished they wouldn’t rest all of their hopes on another divine intervention, but she understood now. It was so much easier to believe that Andraste had taken their side. The threat they now faced was inconceivable—a nightmare given flesh in a dragon cursed with red lyrium, an ancient magister who had ripped through the very fabric of time and dragged destruction in her wake. It made sense that the Maker would want to intervene, that Andraste would act in his stead. 

She supposed it was better, then, for the Inquisition to believe they were still fighting with divine favor in the face of such insurmountable odds.

But it made her attempt to convince herself otherwise that much harder.

When she was alone, or on the verge of sleep, she saw the winged woman, felt that certainty. At the edge of her mind waited the idea, slowing dawning, that maybe they were right. It would be easier, in a way, to believe them. That small girl who had knelt in front of a statue of Andraste every day for nearly eight years wanted to believe.

She maneuvered through the scattered crowds not yet resigned to their tents for the night, trying to keep her face open and pleasant. Her legs were steady as she edged out beyond the ring of torches, past the infirmary tents full with broken and tired bodies, even if her hands still shook and her chest still burned. 

Maker, she was tired. If she could just get a full night’s sleep… 

The location of the camp was well secured, but it didn’t stop her from imagining a jet of bristling red flame cresting the top of those sheltering peaks, destroying the unsuspecting villagers. Taking their last shred of hope. 

They needed somewhere to settle and lick their wounds, not just a cold cot in the middle of nowhere. They needed walls and warmth and safety. They needed another home.

_I should have brought a jacket_ , she thought with a scowl. She’d started shivering the moment she’d left the stuffy, overcrowded council tent. She’d finally taken her left arm out of the sling against her healer’s insistence. The damn thing had been driving her mad. Better to deal with a bit of pain than feel like an invalid.

The wolf, sensing her discomfort, rose and prodded her mark, sending a small wave of warmth through her fingers. She smiled at the sensation, swirling energy making the cold less sharp and the sky less dangerous. Odd that she’d once been so afraid of it. Odder still that she’d grown used to it so quickly.

_Thank you, friend_ , she thought, stopping at the edge of the torchlight. Shadows flickered from the fire behind her, casting strange, shifting shapes on the snow. They reminded her of the wolf after it had changed from the smoking black beast of Therinfal Redoubt to the mottled white and grey creature who had stood with her against Coryphea in Haven. _There a reason for the change in color, by the way? Not that I’m judging you either way. It’s just—interesting._

The wolf paused in its stretching. She got only a vague impression of confusion in response.

_Well, I’m glad I’m not the only one who has no fucking idea what’s going on._

She grinned at its indignant huff. She kept expecting it to disappear when she woke up, but there it had been each morning, rising with her and settling in the back of her mind.

“Insane,” she whispered, shook her head. _Absolutely fucking insane._

The wolf blinked its six green eyes languidly, a smug kind of pleasure radiating between them.

Roslyn laughed, watching the steam fade into the night air. She’d need to figure out a way to deflate that ego if they were going to live with each other.

The stars were partly covered by clouds. She could pick out only a few constellations, her eyes lingering on Draconis in the west out of habit. 

The wolf nudged her again, sending a small sprinkle of light from her hand. She flexed her palm, staring down at the glyph.

_An anchor_ , Coryphea had called it. _An anchor for what?_

Somewhere, deep inside her mind, in the part that housed the worst memories of her childhood and time in the Circle, she was waiting for the madness to set in, for it to take her and ruin this strange, fragile victory she’d stolen from the jaws of death. She had a wolf in her mind, a mark coveted by one of the original darkspawn, a mark which allowed her to draw on the energy of the Fade itself, and she’d been visited by what could only be…

It couldn’t be. The Prophet was kind and gentle, not power incarnate.

_Remember_ … Remember the Conclave?

_They say a woman was behind you, that Andraste herself saved you from the blast._

She’d never seen any mention of wings in the many times she’d read each and every canticle of the Chant. But it made a kind of sense. 

“Those who oppose thee shall know the wrath of heaven,” she murmured, the vision of brilliant white and silver swimming at the front of her mind. In every triptych and mural, Andraste had been given a halo of white light, an aura of shining illumination. Roslyn racked her brain for some mention of Andraste’s ability to fly, of all things. Of some allusion to wings…

She ran a hand through her hair in frustration. There had to be something… Her fingers brushed the pointed tip of her ear and she stilled.

Andraste had worked with the elves, once. Shartan had been her ally. Her general. Was it truly so insane to think Andraste might pick someone with that same blood, even if it was just a trace?

She held her right hand out in front of her, concentrating on the memory. Arcane energy rose in white sparks dancing over her fingers, encasing her upper arm—not unlike the green gauntlet of the mark, she realized with a frown. She slowed her magic to a trickle, trying to focus it. The crackling energy softened. Its bristling edges smoothed into a gentle flame, cold though her skin was warm. Silver dust broke off in licks from her hand and trailed up into the sky. Her heart thudded wildly as the embers danced in the breeze. 

A drift of pine-smoke brushed through her hair, faint, but enough to warn her of someone else’s approach. 

_Not yet, not yet,_ she thought as she kept her gaze focused on her hand. The fire bristled, and white sparks burst from the silver flames. She wasn’t ready for him to leave, not so soon—

Solas stepped into her line of sight, holding a worn linen coat folded over his arms. “Cassandra thought you might be cold.”

She arched an eyebrow, shoving down the urge to turn and walk away, to delay this parting as long as she could. “I didn’t realize you were her errand boy now.”

“I might have mentioned my intent to speak with you, and she…requested.”

She looked up to find his eyes focused on her hand, on the white sparks and silver flames.

“Just testing my limits,” she murmured, lowering her hand and drawing the energy back. The darkness that closed around them was oddly comforting.

Roslyn took the offered coat, careful not to brush his fingers. “Thank you.” She slid her arms in gingerly, trying not to wince at the slight ache as her shoulders twisted. “Cassandra means well, but it’s rather like having a bloodhound trail your every movement.”

“She is concerned for you. They all are.”

“I’m not the only one who nearly died, you know, and yet I’m not hovering over everyone else.” She met his gaze and sighed. “I know they are.”

He stared at her in the silence. No matter how long she searched his face, there was no sign of the sadness he’d shown her before the battle for Haven, not even the conflict she’d seen so many times before. He’d been frayed and ragged when he’d saved her three days ago. Now he was just—cold.

She cleared her throat. “You wanted to speak with me?” 

He nodded. “I wanted to applaud your subtle handling of the council both yesterday and today. More than once now you have managed to impress upon them all the severity of their situation, their need to think beyond themselves.” He paused, inclining his head. “It is impressive.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. “It’s just guesswork and using their own pity at this point, I think.”

“Do not discredit yourself.” He slid his arms behind his back, folding his hands together and studying her. “I cannot recall a time in recent history that a half-elf has been treated to such respect by her peers.”

Roslyn held his gaze, wondering where he was heading with this train of thought. “It helps that I have a glowing hand and a fancy title.”

Solas’s mouth twitched, but his eyes remained coolly appraising. “Many would have been content to be used as a tool, to be carted around as a symbol and a weapon, but you have taken the brand they foisted upon you and risen beyond it. They trust you. They will listen to you.”

Something in his tone made her uneasy. She was just doing what she had to do to survive, to ensure that others survived. He spoke as if she were purposefully maneuvering herself into their good graces, as if she were doing anything beyond surviving. As if she wanted the power they seemed to think she had.

She frowned. “Why are you telling me this?”

He considered her, and in that endless moment, she thought he looked different. More remote than she had ever seen him, as if another person had stepped into his skin, someone harder, someone colder, someone she did not know. “There will be some who try to use your influence for their own gain, influence which is rightly yours. The Inquisition survived _solely_ due to you. Do not think that news of the Herald of Andraste standing against a magister from Tevinter of old and _surviving_ will remain within this camp. Not if your council has anything to say about it.” A beat of silence. “Remember that you can direct the coming tide, if you wish.”

A prickle of unease ran down her spine. Vivienne had said something similar to her, and it did not sit well to hear it coming from him.

Though…it wasn’t exactly news. Solas had hinted at having opinions about her station in their first conversation alone. He had mentioned being curious about what kind of figure she might turn out to be. 

What kind of hero.

“I appreciate the warning.” She unfolded her arms, suddenly unable to remain still. This—chill advice wasn’t what she wanted. “Is that all?”

He tilted his head. “The orb Coryphea carries. It is elven.”

She stared. “What? How do you know?”

“Your description of the item matches memories I have seen in the Fade and in my own research. I had wondered how the Elder One gathered enough power enough to open the Breach, and she as much as gave you the answer. Foci such as this orb and others like it were used to harness old magics that might have overwhelmed the user in millennia past, before the vast empire of my people fell. It was common practice then, to safeguard oneself against losing control, to imbue objects with one’s magic, to draw on later when the need arose. The magics of my people were subtle, and required years of discipline, and vast stores of power. The amount contained within that orb must have been immense, to fuel her sundering of the Veil.”

Roslyn’s mind wrapped around the idea that it was elven, that the mark, and the wolf… 

“Why would Coryphea use an elven artifact? She wasn’t—” Roslyn frowned. “I don’t think she’d knowingly use something made by elves.” Her frown deepened with the memory of _abomination_ and _rattus_ hurled at her like knives.

Solas’s eyes darkened and he looked away, anger breaking through his cold mask. “Tevinter was built on the bones of my people, by scavengers and usurpers digging out the treasures of an empire and piecing it together in their image, spoiling an entire history in the process. I would not be surprised if she didn’t know its true origins.”

Roslyn watched him rein in his anger, fighting the urge to comfort him. “You didn’t mention this to the council.” She guessed why—they would figure out a way to blame elves. They would always blame elves.

He kept his gaze toward the night sky.

“You’re sure the orb is elven?”

He turned at that, his eyes hard and resolute. “Yes.”

Roslyn held his gaze as something shifted within her. “Did the anchor come from this…focus, then? Was it tied to the orb?”

There was a unreadable glint to his eyes, somehow brighter in the mountain darkness. “It would not be unreasonable to suspect that they are linked.”

The mark had always been something inherently _other_ , a source of fear and danger, especially once it took on a life of its own. She’d never thought of the possibility that it was something real. That it had a past.

Her wolf was elven.

Fur brushed across the back of her mind, a pleasant, warm reminder. She smiled before she could stop herself.

_At least we know where to start, hm?_ she thought, the wolf rumbling slightly as if she were waking it from sleep.

Solas stared, his gaze fixed on her smile.

“Well,” she said after a moment, “thank you for telling me this. I can see why you wouldn’t want the rest of them to know.” _Everyone is already willing to dismiss me because of my ears, they’d go mad if they found out the blessing of Andraste was actually elven._ If the Chantry learned that the Inquisition’s Herald held a mark that was elven in origin, they’d use it to further discredit her and destabilize them.

A flat intensity crowded his expression. “Humans have not historically understood the subtlety of a point where elves are concerned.”

Roslyn let out a humorless laugh. “That’s putting it mildly.” She watched his neutral mask reassert itself with disappointment. The intensity wasn’t ideal, but it was something. Was he closing himself off because he was about to leave?

She tried not to recall his ragged breathing, the relief and fear in whatever he’d said to her in elven as he held her close on the side of a blood-streaked mountain.

“Thank you for saving my life. Again,” she added dryly.

He looked out over the mountains, his expression closed. “You do not have to thank me for that, Herald.”

She tried to find some shred of the man who’d waited by her cabin to tell her goodbye.

_Give me something, please._

“Then can I thank you for staying with the Inquisition to help them escape?”

“There were many who were injured in the battle and the consequent march into the mountains. I would not leave while my services were needed.”

Such a simple answer. Such a damnably good answer that she almost hated herself for wanting more. He’d stayed to help, and now that the situation was under control, he could leave. There was nothing keeping him here. She half-expected others to pack up and leave as well now that they knew what faced them. It was one thing to pledge themselves to a goal when the danger had passed, another to face down an archdemon and choose to remain.

“I know you weren’t—” She faltered. “I know this wasn’t your plan.”

She counted the beats of her heart, the silence growing sharp.

A small furrow creased his brow, his lips pressed tight, and she could almost convince herself she saw the shadow of regret in his eyes. “Plans sometimes change.”

It was so faint, but the break in his voice made something violent rear up inside her. Maybe it was the fact that she’d nearly died three days ago, or that he’d held her neck and squeezed her hand while his aura thudded inside her, or that her heart felt like a strange and altered place after the burning out of a power both foreign and fierce.

Everything that had built within her for the last three days, three _months_ , came rushing in on her at once and she couldn’t stop herself from shattering under the pressure.

Her breath ghosted before her face, the last show of resistance as she broke. “Don’t go,” she murmured. “ _I_ need you.”

His eyes snapped to her, catching the light of the distant torches and reflecting wildly against the stars. 

“You said you were going somewhere you were needed,” she continued, racing through the last of her resolve. “I don’t know where that is and you don’t have to tell me, but…you’re the only one who understands the mark. I know you hate me for binding it, but I had no _choice_ , Solas. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I can’t—” Her words failed her as her chest ached. She wanted to scream or shout, or run, but she couldn’t. She could only whisper, “I can’t do this without you.”

He stared at her with a kind of pained frustration. The muscles of his jaw feathered, before he murmured, “I _don’t_ understand it, clearly. I thought I did—”

“But that’s not your fault,” she said quickly. Finally, _finally_ he’d said something that wasn’t stilted and formal. “I did something to the mark, before I bound it. I was the one to make it turn. I’m not saying that I want to change it back.” She could almost see the wolf in her mind’s eye, feel the warmth of its presence. She wouldn’t reverse it. She couldn’t. “You saved me after the Conclave. You stopped the mark from killing me. You understand it, Solas.” 

_You saved me on the mountain even though it might have killed you._

He’d pulled away from their kiss.

He’d been the one to stop.

Ever since she’d met him, he had been turned away, one foot set on a path which led somewhere she could never follow.

“I know things between us are—,” she hesitated, heart thudding in her throat, wanting to launch herself into the air and flee from the pity in his eyes, “— _strained_. I don’t want to make you stay if you feel uncomfortable, but…I need you. The Inquisition needs you. I can’t let you leave thinking that you weren’t—needed.”

It was just them, standing frozen on the peak of a barren mountain top. The small sounds of the camp behind her were muted, as if her world had shrunk to the space between her breath and his.

He stared at her with such conflict that she almost flagged. She could take it back. She could say she was tired, and she was just being weak. He didn’t need to stay for her. He didn’t owe her anything.

But she _was_ so tired, and she couldn’t bear the thought of him leaving her with all of this. Leaving her alone.

“I…” he started, his voice low and rough. “I can offer you nothing more than my friendship, Roslyn.”

It took her a moment to understand, to crush the feeble thumping in her heart, to kill it, for good. “Of course,” she said in a hollow voice. “I don’t want anything more.” _Liar_. “I just need someone who doesn’t think I’m something I’m not. Everyone thinks it’s some miracle I survived. I can’t tell them it was— It was luck and good timing. Another three seconds and I would have been dead just like everyone else.”

She looked down, shaking her head. “I’m not what they think I am,” she whispered, trying just as much to convince herself. The light from the winged woman clouded her mind, and a young girl clutched at threads of hope which spun and spun even as she tried to stop them. “I don’t know what I’m doing, and I don’t know how long I can keep up the charade that I do.” 

It was a long time before she looked up, unable to bear the silence. 

Solas watched her, his face a mask of indecision. He seemed to be deciding something, the effort carving lines into his brow.

“You are not the only one who has suffered under the burdens of a responsibility beyond yourself,” he finally murmured, his eyes softening. “Others have broken under such a weight. That you haven’t is a sign of victory, not failure. The Inquisition’s faith in you might be shaping this moment in time, shaping _you_ , but you have the choice to keep yourself apart from it. No one can tell you who you are.” He paused, the ghost of a smile twisting his lips. “I believe it was you who berated me once for doing the same.”

Roslyn laughed in surprise, which turned quickly into a sharp cry when her ribs protested. She breathed slowly, trying not to grit her teeth as the pain ebbed.

When she looked back up, his gaze had sharpened to study her reaction. There was concern in his eyes, quickly doused when she shook her head. “Berated. That’s a soft word for it,” she tried, voice rough over the fading pain, “don’t you think?”

A hesitant, knowing smile tugged at his lips. He shifted in the snow, his bare feet crunching in the quiet between them. “Believe me when I say it is not a mark of weakness to chafe under the expectations of power. Quite the opposite.”

Roslyn searched his expression, heard the note of pain and memory in his voice, and wondered not for the first time how he understood exactly what she was going through.

“If you insist,” she murmured, trying to conjure a smile onto her own lips.

Solas straightened, a new purpose settling over his rigid shoulders. “You were right that no one will come to our aid.”

She breathed slowly, ignoring the pitiful, hopeful swell in her chest as he said _our_.

“The Inquisition stands on its own, as it should. Just as it should have a place of its own to build, and grow.” He paused, and for the first time since leaving Haven, some of the anxiety raging in the back of her mind eased. That drive, that thread of confidence in his voice, stirred something inside her she’d thought was buried in the valley behind them.

“Are you’re suggesting we build an entire fortress in the mountains with non-existent supplies and manpower?”

Solas’s mouth twitched into a slight smirk. “Nothing of the kind. I am suggesting you find one already built.”


	5. House of Doubt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Home II" by Dotan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oTVKeVReIgc&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&index=5&t=0s)
> 
> *Updated with new content on 4/10/18*

The fortress rose up between the mountain peaks like a beacon of solidity and endurance.

Roslyn waited at the end of a long bridge made of iron and granite. The gates standing opposite her pulled at her mind, whispered through the air, conjuring something out of the old magics Solas had told her might hang around the structure.

He stood beside her, his eyes bright as he followed her gaze.

“Remind me never to doubt you again,” she murmured.

“I shall do nothing of the kind, as I am sure it would lead only to hardship on my end.”

“Assuming is a bad habit.”

“Not when one’s assumption is based on a wealth of personal experience.”

They’d scouted north for the better part of two weeks. It had been slow at first, since Roslyn had insisted on traveling with the party and she couldn’t go more than a few miles a day in her condition. As the days went on and she recovered, however, the scouting party, consisting of the Chargers and led by Harding and Solas, was able to cover more ground. After vigilant searching through hidden mountain valleys and trekking in the shadows of sheer cliffs of ice, they’d finally found what they were looking for—a sprawling fortress hidden in the heart of the Frostbacks. 

Nestled in a vast valley, the huge granite structure stood firm and imposing amidst the white snow. Sunlight bounced off its walls, strangely reflective in the midday sun. Crumbling ramparts sat under half-fallen towers, eaves and arches hung with snow and ice, but still, over everything, a sense of endurance and safety hung in the air. It felt—permanent, somehow. As if it had stood for a thousand years and would remain long after she was dead and forgotten. She stared upon a fixed moment in time, ageless and unending.

Two weeks of guilt and anxiety broke inside her chest. With a short, unsteady exhale, she relaxed, and for the first time since leaving Haven, she felt excited.

“My people called it _Tarasyl’an Tel’as_ ,” Solas murmured. “Skyhold, in the common tongue.”

The words rang in the back of her mind as if she should recognize them. The wolf shifted at her anticipation, raising its head to stare out with her at the fortress. Her vision sharpened and with a rush of exhilaration, she noticed faint, curling bows of energy, sweeping over the bridge and flowing into the gates. They rose in an arc over the tallest tower, joined more streams drifting like water over the entire structure. A dome of rippling light covered the fortress.

“It’s taking in ambient energy,” she whispered, stepping forward. “There’s some kind of barrier surrounding it.” But such a large enchantment should have faded without anyone to tend to it. How had it maintained itself for so long abandoned? 

Solas fell into step beside her. “I assumed as much, when I came across it in the Fade.” She could feel him studying her, but she couldn’t look away from the fortress. “The magics here are layered upon energy built over thousands of years. I would not be surprised if they came from the mountains themselves.”

“Is that likely?” Her heart beat faster the closer she got to the gates. That thread of connection grew taut, and she wondered briefly if it was sensing the anchor, or her. The dome shone like a liquid globe, the faintest hint of yellow and green shimmering against the piercing blue of the sky.

“There are some kinds of magic that do not follow the rules set down by your Circles. Magic that lives in the earth and thrives like any other organism that has a will of its own. I have seen such a thing before, in places not touched by civilization—the earth will take on a life of itself, a will of its own.”

“Like your forests.”

He nodded. “Exactly. Though this might differ somewhat, having been crafted and honed first through artificial means. The energy itself is more volatile than one might find in a forest. Perhaps this was once the sight of a great magical upheaval, the traces of which still linger today.” He paused. “I would encourage caution, Herald.”

She grinned. “Right. Caution. You know me.”

She had to force herself not to sprint forward. The energy hummed in a kind of beat, dancing over her skin and prickling along the back of her neck—it was intoxicating. She felt like she stood at the edge of an electric storm, heart racing with the urge to hold out her hand and touch it, like a child being held back from sprinting into a cold lake.

“Would you look at this place,” Krem said in a reverent tone where he walked with the Chargers behind her and Solas. He let out a disbelieving laugh. “I’m surprised Orlais hasn’t claimed it for its own—a secure fortress like this would be worth half the royal treasury. Must be lots of scrambling lords looking to set themselves up someplace nice and secret like.”

Roslyn ran her eyes over the iron gates that rose nearly fifty feet above her. Some rust crawled over the metal and the towers on both sides, but they looked almost new and all-together intact. She peered through the lattice of metal. The inside of the fortress beyond the gates was in shadow, nothing noticeable beyond some patches of color—green grass and brown shapes that might be trees.

“With this view we might actually see that dragon coming,” Iron Bull called as he swung around to look back at the valley. “These walls must be fifteen feet deep. Fuck, Solas, how’d you know about this place again?”

“The Fade offers many answers to those who look, Iron Bull.”

“Right,” Iron Bull muttered. “Like a morning market and you just picked up a fresh basket of pomegranates.”

“The gates must be barred from the other side,” Roslyn murmured with a small smile as she walked forward, skimming the energy with her aura, getting a feel for it. It felt similar to the doors she’d encountered under Redcliffe Castle. A repulsion to unwelcome guests? Is that how it had remained untouched for so long?

The wolf huffed and sniffed, sending a tendril of its own energy toward the doors. The sweet hum of something organic and growing coated her tongue, like the fresh sweetness of roots in the ground or the damp earth just after a rainstorm. It was almost like tasting an aura, but far larger and less focused than any one person. It was the process of nature itself, all layered over a steady thrum of stone and snow.

She took a step back, nearly bumping into Iron Bull. With an absent pat on his chest, she craned her neck to examine the side towers. She grinned. About twenty feet up on her left was a hole in the stone, and beyond, a small landing of broken wood.

She let her magic swell in her core. “Be right back,” she said, stepping forward and crouching. Before anyone could object, she launched herself up on a wave of arcane energy and threw herself into the hole. She landed unsteadily on her feet, stumbling and wincing as her knees groaned. The wood creaked in complaint. It had probably been centuries since anyone had walked on it.

She ignored Iron Bull’s audible curse as she rolled out her shoulders and breathed through the ache in her thighs and lower back. 

“Still alive,” she called and made her way gingerly across the landing toward a window on the opposite wall. Not trusting the rotten ladder at her feet, she peered out over the courtyard. A stone staircase passed under the window only a few feet below. She hoisted herself over the ledge, slowing when a beam of wood gave way under her boot. Easing herself out of the opening with shaking arms, she lowered herself onto the staircase with as much control as she could manage. She might have recovered enough to use her magic and hike through the mountains with the rest of them, but she still felt weak.

Breathing heavily and wiping sweat from her brow, she turned to survey the courtyard. Long grass and wildflowers choked the expansive field before her, larger than it had seemed from outside the gates. It came up to brush at her knees when she finally stepped onto the ground. Trees twisted together in the corners of the courtyard. Vines winded through the stone walls and crawled over each other on their way to the sky. Puddles of water collected among the tall grass. She frowned, knowing it could not have rained so high up in the mountains. This place should have been buried in snow. Was it coming up from the ground then? A few birds took to the air as she drifted forward. She watched them fly up and over the center structure. The main keep looked out over the rest of the fortress, raised on a second, higher tier of land. She stared at the fine balcony overlooking it all, almost expecting a figure to emerge and lean against the wrought-iron rail.

“Your worship,” Harding called, her voice only revealing a hint of exasperation, “I’ve got some people here who are about to break down the gates if you don’t show yourself soon. Bunch of nervous numpties, if you ask me.”

Roslyn grinned and turned. “My stars, how flattering. Tell them to have some patience and trust, will you please? You’re scaring the birds.”

Her grin widened at the sound of muffled laughter. Not for the first time, she was very glad that Cassandra had opted out of that day’s scouting party.

She peered through the lattice of the gate. The distortion present on the other side didn’t seem to affect this side. The group was visible, and all of them were looking in her direction with varied expressions of anticipation. Harding and Krem stood on Iron Bull’s left side, while the rest of the Chargers mingled behind him. 

She frowned when she looked to Solas. He wasn’t staring at her directly, but up and over her head. His eyes were hard with anticipation, and there was a kind of longing in them that gave her pause. There was no attempt to hide himself, no polite mask slipped over his features to play the detached scholar. His eyes held a sadness palpable through the air, and it made her chest tighten. He must know more about the structure than he’d let on. 

The clipped explanation and casual mention of a fortress he’d found in the Fade, as if he’d just stumbled onto the thing one night and thought it nothing more than a happy coincidence, had been a bit too convenient. It was bullshit, of course, but she hadn’t pressed him, not wanting to break the tenuous camaraderie they’d rebuilt. She wondered now what Skyhold’s history was, if he was looking at it with such melancholy.

They hadn’t spoken much since that night on the side of the mountain. Since she’d thrown caution to the wind and practically begged him to stay.

She wasn’t embarrassed, but it was hard not to feel like a fool when he’d shown her nothing more than polite disinterest since. They hadn’t avoided each other and he’d paid her as much courtesy as he did everyone else, perhaps even more. But it was…awkward. A part of her wondered if it might have been better to let him go. Then she wouldn’t need to wrestle with the knot of pain that now seemed permanently lodged inside her chest whenever she looked at him.

Roslyn had done her best not to let the lingering threads of disappointment color their interactions, but she knew she wasn’t doing a good job. She’d catch his sympathy, and something like conflict every time she let herself look too long. Let him chalk it up to her recovery, or the fact that she was still reeling from Haven. Both were true, but not entirely.

_I’m going to need to figure that out_ , she told the wolf, mentally brushing against it. It rumbled, huffing in the back of her mind and turning its face to blink at her slowly. _I can’t pine after him forever._

She stared at Solas, allowing her eyes to rove over his face, to savor it, before she stepped closer to the gates. “I’m going to try and interact with the enchantment, see if I can open them without a battering ram.”

Solas’s expression smoothed and he looked down, closer to where she stood. “I would not suggest reaching out with your aura just yet. You don’t know how it will react. Try casting a barrier and directing it outward.”

Roslyn frowned.

He tried to hide his answering grin. “Perhaps a small blast of telekinetic energy?”

_Ass_. She narrowed her eyes at him as she raised her hand. “Step back. I don’t want to blast anyone off the bridge if this goes south.”

“Ah—is that likely, your worship?” Krem asked as he slid behind Iron Bull.

Roslyn let her energy glide over her hand and gave a gentle push. The air shimmered where her magic shot forward, blowing into the iron gates and passing through without interference. Rocky cursed colorfully and ducked behind Iron Bull as well as the energy flew toward them, dispersing and turning into no more than a gust of wind. Dalish just smiled serenely at the magic as it brushed over her. Iron Bull’s raised brows were enough to tell her they’d seen something.

Solas’s eyes widened and his grin softened into a smile. “I believe we have our answer.”

Roslyn swallowed the lurch in her chest at that damned smile. “Did something happen?”

“Yeah, you just appeared out of thin air and then vanished again.” Iron Bull frowned, looking slightly disturbed. “And you seem to be standing in a field of flowers rather than a broken down castle.”

“Give me a second and you can gather some yourself.” She chewed on her lower lip, eyes flicking back toward Solas. “So I just…ask it to open?” 

“In essentials, yes.” His smile faded, but there was a spark of it left in his eyes. “This enchantment, whatever it may be, has lain dormant for who knows how many centuries, but it is demonstrably receptive to your magic. Now you must ask it to give you ownership.”

She took a deep breath, letting the wolf rise and move with her, and pressed her palm against the gates.

It answered her at once, spooling over her fingers and threading around her skin. She forced herself to remain still, careful not to scare the foreign presence draping over her shoulders. It pressed in on her, searching. The smell of fresh dirt and mist flowed into her nostrils. A strong gust blew past her, warm sunlight spread over her arms and chest. She let out a low curse as it nearly overwhelmed her.

“Boss?” Iron Bull asked in a low voice.

“Fine,” she breathed, reconciling herself to the enormous weight of energy. “Just—it kind of tickles.”

It wasn’t fighting her, but it seemed to be waiting, testing. There was no consciousness to it, not the like the wolf, or not one that she could recognize. The edges of her aura snagged against the magic and the wolf growled, only to stop when the energy released and continued on its path. The longer it searched, the more she became aware of its sheer size. She felt as if the mountain itself was reaching up to embrace her, as if she stood in the eye of a storm that did not know yet which direction it was heading. There was no malice or spite in it, but there was an enormous indifference. It could crush her if it had a mind to, but there was no mind to direct it.

Somewhere behind her sternum the magic turned inward. Ready, Roslyn clenched her jaw as it _pushed_. The dirt and sun turned to snow and silver light. Wine and the salt tang of the sea brushed over her tongue—the distant ringing of bells and building thunder whipped around her ears. Having found what it wanted, the magic rushed forward, reshaping itself through her. She braced her hands against the iron gate, exhaling in a rush of sensation.

And then it stopped. The shimmering light hanging between her and the rest of her party dispersed slowly through the air.

Roslyn straightened as they all focused on her. They were silent, mingled expressions of caution and excitement on their faces. She blinked, checking her mana to see if anything had changed. The wolf shifted, confused, but exhilarated. It began pacing in the back of her mind, testing the boundaries of its magic where it overlapped with hers.

_All good?_ she asked when it turned toward her again.

It sent her an amused confirmation.

“Right,” she started, waiting for something to explode or for another limb to ignite, “I think it worked.”

“What did you do?” Harding asked, her usually business-like tone softened in awe.

Roslyn shrugged. “Search me.”

“The fortress accepted you,” Solas murmured, eyes bright with a kind of excitement she didn’t quite understand. “It has allowed you ownership.”

“So. You have a castle now,” Iron Bull said dryly. “Mind letting us in so we can eat? It’s almost midday.”

Roslyn grinned and stepped back, searching for the door to the gatehouse. “Let me see if I can’t raise these gates first. I’d rather you not break down the doors of my new castle.”

 

~  ✧ ~

 

It took the Inquisition a week to move everyone into Skyhold.

Most of the towers were unusable and close to collapsing, the grand hall was little more than rotten wood and shattered glass, but the outside walls were intact. The more they excavated, the more evidence they found of the fortress’s former inhabitants—Ferelden architecture mixed with old elven foundational design. They even found a few dwarven rune-maps carved into the very bottom layers of the keep itself. 

Roslyn recovered fully within a day of arrival. She had a feeling it was connected to the magic thrumming in every stone under her feet, amplifying whatever her mark was already doing to speed up the regenerative process. But people kept waving her off each time she offered to help. As if the Herald of Andraste working alongside the common people was somehow an affront to the Maker. It was getting so frustrating that she was starting to consider just picking an abandoned part of the fortress and starting to work on her own. Of course, she had no idea what she was doing, so she’d probably do more harm than good without supervision.

She made do by helping the healers tend to the injured and making the rounds to ensure they all saw her up and about. The looks in their eyes were enough to tell her that it helped. 

Eight days after arriving, she extricated herself from a gaggle of mages, some she knew from her time in the Rebellion, some she didn’t, and made an excuse about finding Cassandra to go over plans for food storage. It was still hard to be around so many people at once, all of them staring at her like she was two seconds away from pulling flowers out of her ass. Or setting her skin on fire.

She fought a grimace, taking the far stair up to the battlements overlooking the southern edge of the valley. She’d beaten back an archdemon and an ancient Tevinter magister. She’d climbed up a mountain through a snow storm and delivered them to a castle just as they were about to die in the middle of nowhere from starvation. It made sense that people were impressed. She’d be impressed too, if she were looking in from the outside.

But it made her nervous. As if she were waiting for the catch. The hidden price for so much good luck.

In hindsight, it was good they’d sent so many ravens out those first few nights after Haven, as they were now stocked with food and supplies that would last them months. Orzammar, Orlais, and Ferelden were only too happy to send them food by the ton if it meant they didn’t need to shelter them. Letters had come back with allusions to the “girl” who had led the Inquisition through the mountains, most of them half-baked attempts to learn more about who she was—“Is she truly elf-blooded? And that capable? How improbable!” one had said, causing her to upend the ink well on Josephine’s new desk when she slammed her fist down a bit too forcefully. 

Josephine had stopped showing her the letters after that, to everyone’s relief.

This anxiety would pass. This frantic itch to move and run and be out of sight. To find someplace quiet, where she could breathe. 

It always did.

Her wolf tipped its head back and huffed at the setting sun. The light cast the snow-capped peaks in shades of orange and pink. She sighed and bent over the stone wall, craning forward and resting her chin against her arms. _Wish you were the Herald. You’d strike a much more imposing figure than me._

The wolf whipped its tail toward her and she grinned. It had been strange, acclimating to its presence. It grew more and more bold the longer they interacted. It still couldn’t speak in any real sense, only convey emotion, but it was getting easier to understand. Part of her felt insane for appreciating the companionship of an incorporeal manifestation of an unknown and ancient magical artifact, but the rest of her didn’t care. Her life was a fucking mess, might as well throw herself into the delusion with gusto.

She breathed deeply as a gust of wind brushed her hair back from her face. The air was clear this high up in the mountains. It felt right, deep in the base of her spine. It was— _freeing_ , to stare out across the horizon and know that she would be able to see anything that came for her. Up here at the tip of the world, she didn’t feel small. She was just another piece of the endless sky. 

“Got a second, boss?”

_That was nice while it lasted_ , she thought with a sigh, peering over her shoulder to raise an eyebrow at Iron Bull. How had he snuck up on her? He had absolutely no right to be so damn quiet. He was the size of five men, for Maker’s sake. “No, I am clearly busy, Bull. You’ll have to come back later.”

He grinned and crossed his arms, leaning against the stone wall a few feet from her. “Yeah, I figure for anyone as grand as the Herald of Andraste, there’s a minimum requirement of a full hour staring pensively into the distance.”

She straightened and gave him her best smile, shoving down the small discomfort at his words. “You just missed the ‘raging triumphant against the dark’ bit. That’s the real show-stopper.”

He laughed and looked out over the mountains. “Can’t blame you, I guess. It’s a view for the books, that’s for damn sure. Reminds me of the northern tip of the Hundred Pillars just outside Arlathan Forest.” At her curious smile, he continued, “Scouted a group of insurgents once who’d hopped on a boat from Seheron and fled into the mountains. Had to pick them off one by one. It took us nearly a week. Brightest and reddest sunsets you’ve ever seen over those peaks, like some asshole had painted the whole horizon in blood.”

She watched him, trying to reconcile the loud, ridiculous qunari who had charmed her after saving her life from Tevinter assassins with the pensive man who’d spoken to her about controlling her anger. “You needed something?”

“Ah, yeah,” he sighed and looked at her out of the corner of his one intact eye, “I finally got through to my Ben Hassrath contacts. They don’t think the Venatori have any official ties to the Imperium, but word is that the Archon was interested in them at some point.”

“Radonis knew of them before they turned south, and said nothing?”

He smiled wryly. “I mean, sure, but it’s not like he was going to send out a memorandum. You don’t let everyone know when malcontents start talking about overthrowing your government and working for some resurrected demi-god.”

“Still,” she frowned, “it might have been nice to get a warning.”

“Got a lead on someone who might have been hired to hit a few targets, though,” he continued. “If we can figure out who did the hiring and why, it might help us understand how this shit show got started.”

She nodded. “What did Leliana say when you told her? I’m sure Dorian will have his opinions. You can’t mumble the word Tevinter without summoning him to correct you on a finer detail.”

Iron Bull’s eye sharpened at the mention of Dorian. They still weren’t getting along, but that was to be expected. Tevinter and the Qun had been at war for the better part of three centuries. It might take them more than a few weeks of forced bonding to learn acceptance. _It took me a lot longer than that with the templars,_ she thought darkly.

“I came to you first.”

She stared at him. “You—,” she broke off, disliking the rather intent gleam in his black eye, “you came to me? I don’t know anything about Tevinter politics.”

He laughed and shook his head. “You know more than most, boss.”

“That’s not saying much.”

“Way I see it,” he mused, turning back to stare over the battlements, “this Inquisition has survived longer than it should have. I’ll grant that it’s got a lot of spunk and no lack of determination, but good intentions only get you so far when it comes to actually getting shit done. Winning battles is fine. It’s the bureaucracy that kills organizations before they get their legs under them.”

“Bracing,” she muttered, not liking where this was leading. “I’m inspired.”

A small grin pulled at the edge of his mouth. “You should be. You’ve done an impressive job steering this rudderless ship. Your council means well, but if you ask me, all of them are waiting for the other shoe to drop. They all know what has to happen next.”

Anxiety prickled at the base of her spine. The wolf quirked its ears toward her and brushed against her hand, sensing her tension. Part of her knew what he meant. She’d been dreading the moment someone would come right out and say it for weeks. “I’m not that clever, Bull. You’ll have to help me connect the dots here.”

“Yes, you are, and no, I don’t.” He paused, watching her closely. “Your Inquisition needs a leader.”

“Cassandra’s the leader,” she answered without thought.

He arched an eyebrow. “Does she know that?”

“It’s—she is. She’s the one who declared it, her and Leliana.”

“Now, see,” he shook his head, “that sounds like two people to me. You can get away with split leadership if you’ve got time and money, but we haven’t got either.”

She exhaled and braced her hands against her hips, something to keep them from clenching and unclenching in her frustration. “I know what you’re going to say, but I’m not interested.”

“You already act like it,” he said in a gentle, quiet tone. “You have to realize that most of those people down there think of you—”

“They’re scared,” she interrupted, “and I’m—visible. They don’t think I’m leading, they just…” She trailed off, the weak justification in her voice obvious. She hated that she was having to convince herself as well as him. “They need to think of me as having my shit together, and if that helps them sleep at night—fine. But I’m not their leader.”

He was silent for a while. “All right,” he said, sounding about as convinced as she was, “but I won’t be the last person to broach the topic. And it might be a good idea to work on your reasoning the next time you have to talk about it.”

She shot him a hard look. “Can you not patronize me, please?”

He smiled, though she caught a slight shift in his expression. Was all of this reconnaissance for his next Ben Hassrath report, then? _The Herald of Andraste is an ignorant and naïve child who can’t handle the burdens of leadership—_

“I didn’t mean to offend. I’m just being honest. I can field my reports through Nightingale again if you like, no problem.” He straightened off the stone and clapped her on the shoulder. “You’re not as dumb as you like to play, Roslyn. Give yourself some credit every now and again. If only to humor me.”

She clenched her jaw and nodded, unable to meet his eye. She was right to reject the idea of assuming leadership. It was one thing to be their…mascot, or whatever the fuck she was as the Herald of Andraste. That, at least, was mostly ceremonial.

“Bull,” she called before she could stop herself, looking up as he paused at the edge of the staircase. “I just—there are better people for the job.”

He titled his head in consideration, horns catching the light from the sun and shining like black glass. “If you say so, boss.”

She watched him slip down the stone staircase as the sun dipped fully beneath the mountain peaks. Her eyes followed the light where it moved across the fortress. It was a beautiful piece of work even in its ruined state, every line of stone and archway crafted with intent and artistry.

_I can’t be their leader_ , she repeated to the wolf where it lay its chin on her shoulder, looking out at the fortress with her. _I’m barely holding it together as it is. I’d break in two days if I had to be responsible for all their lives._

But she _was_ responsible. How many times had she stared up at the dark ceiling of her room, listening to the imagined cries of men and women who had died because of her and her mark? How many times had she thought about the mages, even the templars, she’d been too slow to save?

_I will not suffer even an unknowing rival._

Coryphea had marked her already. The Elder One would focus on her, and by extension the Inquisition. It was her fault they’d had to seek refuge in this place that should not have existed. It would be her fault when they were put in danger again.

If responsibility meant leadership, then who the fuck was she to let someone else take the fall?

She stood watching the light slide down the surface of Skyhold’s main keep for another few minutes, unable to shake the feeling that she didn’t have a choice at all, in the end. 

 

~  ✧ ~

 

Roslyn stood at the front of a circle of people, staring into a roaring bonfire. Over the hiss and crackle of the flames, voices rose up into the night sky. They recited the Canticle of Transfigurations, joining together into a solemn chorus that flicked and popped with the wood sitting in their center. Gathering the fuel had been easy, as the fortress had been practically falling apart anyway. Anything they couldn’t salvage had been dragged out into a pile at the edge of the valley, seated in the shadow of the last mountain before the bridge leading to Skyhold. 

The wood was damp and cut through with mold, but with the help of a few of the mages, they’d managed to light it. For nearly an hour, it had burned, rising high and shifting with the wind. It was a risk, to signal their location to anyone who might be watching, but it had been worth it. 

The people of Haven were worth it. 

_“The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next.”_

Roslyn mouthed the words along with everyone else, a crowd which numbered nearly one thousand. Everyone who had come through the mountains to find a new home, who had remained despite the cost already taken from them. 

_“For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, She should see fire and go towards light.”_

The ceremony had been her idea, and the council had agreed. They needed something to commemorate the dead, now that they were sure they would be a while in joining them. 

She imagined the kind of ceremony they might have had—a grand parade through Val Royeaux, streamers of white and yellow drifting down from the colored houses, gables of pink and blue offsetting the stark red robes of the Chantry mothers who presided over their procession. The bells would have chimed from the top of the Grand Cathedral, and the world would have mourned their loss. Haven would have been remembered for centuries to come. 

Now, on this cold hill in the middle of the Frostback Mountains, Roslyn couldn’t help but think this was far more suitable. It was enough, but it would never be _enough_. Nothing would ever be enough to make up the loss which still hung in her heart as her burden alone. All those people had died, but they needn’t have died for nothing. 

_“The Veil holds no uncertainty for her, and she will know no fear of death, for the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.”_

She let her lips form the words, adding her voice to the throng as the bonfire cracked and burned, and a jet of flame reached up into the heavens, defiantly arcing toward the stars. 

Her eyes closed, a few tears escaping down her cheeks as she burned Haven into her mind. She tried to recall every face she could, every detail of the little village where the course of her life, of the world, had changed. The pain bit into her, and she welcomed it, reforging her will to the sole purpose of vengeance for their deaths. Vengeance for the Divine. Vengeance for herself. 

She _would_ kill Coryphea. If it was the last thing she did, she would see that bitch burn. 

The heat of the fire leapt into her chest, and she breathed out, clenching her marked fist as a prickle of the wolf’s energy answered her conviction. She felt the illumination brush her face, and she welcomed it, accepted it. _No more fear_. 

And then a voice began to rise over the crackling bonfire, singing a song she recalled from her childhood. A song of hope and light. A song of rebirth. A song of the new dawn.

The girl she once was might have cried for that song. The woman she was now cried for the ones she’d failed. The ones who had died at Haven. At Redcliffe. At Therinfal Redoubt. The ones she had failed to save. 

As the last line of the song died, she became aware of a crunching shift in the snow beside her. She opened her eyes with a frown, only to go still when she saw Cassandra kneeling in the snow. Staring up at her. 

She couldn’t open her mouth. She could do nothing more than watch as, in a wave that chilled any heat left inside her, the rest of the gathered crowd followed suit. Leliana, Cullen, Josephine, all of them knelt and bowed their heads. Leliana at least held her gaze, tears running like tracks down her pale, worn face. 

Panic surged up inside her, and she tried not to show it. The wolf prodded her, and she smoothed it back, grasping it as if it were the secret to her own confidence. The crowd knelt, all of them, except for a singular figure at the back, down the incline to the bridge, and to Skyhold beyond. 

Solas did not kneel, but he watched her. Relief flickered in her chest, followed quickly by shame. This was too much. No one deserved this, let alone her. 

She tore her gaze from Solas, hating the way it felt cold with expectation. To Cassandra, she whispered, “Get up.”

Cassandra’s mouth pursed. 

“I mean it, get up.” Roslyn raised her voice, swallowing back the lump of nerves as she swept her gaze across the crowd. “All of you, get up.”

Slowly, they obeyed, and that was almost worse. Roslyn tried to understand what they felt, what they wanted, but it was like puzzling out the motivations of a fortress, seeking to know a consciousness so much larger than herself, she was dwarfed in comparison. 

The crowd was waiting. They watched her, ready, willing. 

The silence went taut as the fire gave a great, crackling jump. Flames leapt out around them, and many in the crowd lunged back. When it had settled again, and the pyre was no more than a pile of embers glowing red in the starlight, Roslyn exhaled. 

She tipped up her head, fought the urge to brush away her tears. “No more fear,” she called out, echoing her own pledge to the wolf. “No more. You kneel to no one.”

Without a look at Cassandra or the council, without searching for her friends in the crowd, or for the eyes of those who had lost loved ones at Haven, she turned, and walked back to Skyhold. The crowd parted for her, silent as if they were holding their breath. 

She didn’t mean to walk toward Solas, but he was close to the path down to the bridge. She tried her best not to look at him. If she looked at him, she was afraid she’d crack and reveal the roiling mess she felt inside. She remembered his words on the side of the mountain, that she could be shaped by their awe, or shape them herself. 

_There is power here_ , she thought, frowning at the thought. _Power I don’t want._ This was why she’d brushed Iron Bull off, why she’d needed someone to remember that she was not this…holy figure. Just a girl with a cursed hand and a life filled with death. 

But she wasn’t that anymore. And she hadn’t been for a long time.

Solas stepped aside like the rest of the crowd, though he made no move to join her. As she passed, she paused, and murmured so that only he could hear, “Subtle enough?”

She chanced to meet his gaze, and warmed when she caught the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. 

The tears froze on her cheeks as she walked back to Skyhold. 


	6. No Gold Can Stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Stay Gold" by First Aid Kit](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=syPzVZXrSlc&index=6&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S)

Roslyn’s sword clashed against Cullen’s shield, splinters flying toward her face as she jumped back to miss his answering bash. He swore under his breath, pivoting as she swung around and tried to swing for his leg. He parried the blow, twisting to the side just in time to miss the elbow she threw at his face.

Feinting left, she used his momentum to grab hold of the hand around his shield grip and yank him forward. Grinning in exhilaration, she turned and threw her knee into his stomach as he flew toward her. He grunted and released the grip on his shield. It fell to the ground beside him as he flipped over her outstretched leg.

He was able to catch himself on his knee at the last second, avoiding a face-full of mud, but he wasn’t fast enough to get back his sword. With a smile, Roslyn wrapped a hand around his chin and yanked his head back, just hard enough for him to grunt. She pressed the flat edge of her wooden sword gently against his throat, her heavy breath blowing little tufts of blonde curls across his forehead.

“Feeling lucky, Rutherford?” she asked in a low rasp.

“You don’t have to rub it in, you know.”

She laughed, letting him go with a soft shove, and bent to grab his shield for him.

“You’re still favoring your right side,” he muttered.

“Fine, but I was correct, wasn’t I?” She tossed him his shield as he got to his feet. “Couldn’t have thrown you over my leg like a wee babe if I’d been holding a shield.”

“You also would have died three times over when I managed to disarm you.” He scowled, wincing as he rotated his shoulder.

“Well, then I would have blasted you back with magic while I went and retrieved it.”

He gave her a hard look.

“It’s a joke,” she sighed, wiping her forehead. Sweat clung to her face and arms, and she smiled broadly as she caught her breath. “But you have to admit that I’m getting better.”

“You are,” he said sourly, “more quickly than I would have thought possible. But that doesn’t excuse you skipping the basics. Next time you use a shield.”

“You know, every morning when I show up and ask you to train me, you put up such a fuss that you’d think I was asking you to go over Josie’s letters to Orlais. And yet at the end of each practice, you talk about ‘next times’ and ‘tomorrows.’ It puts a girl in a right state of confusion, it does. One might think you were leading me on the end of a cruel leash.”

His frown deepened as he walked to the side of the training field, Roslyn following after with a self-satisfied grin. Cassandra was whirling about in the center with three of the Inquisition’s finest soldiers, all of whom were pitted against her, and none of whom seemed to be able to get closer than five feet.

Roslyn wolf-whistled as they passed. One soldier looked around in surprise, only to have Cassandra slam him into the ground in a sweeping arc with her sword. Her jaw clenched as she helped him up, but a small smile crossed her mouth before she turned to her next opponent. Her next victim.

“Keep that up and one day she’s going to make you pay for it.”

Roslyn looked askance at Cullen as they ducked under the newly built awning covering the weapon racks full of practice swords and shields. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Cassandra loves it when I tease her.”

“Like a dragon loves someone poking it with a stick.”

“Oh, you are in a mood today. Bird shit on you again last night? You know there are these things called _roofs_ which might help you fend off unwanted gifts.”

He paused in the act of replacing his shield, staring unfocused in front of him. His face grew tense, and he murmured, “I didn’t sleep well.”

Roslyn watched, her smile fading as she heard the note of fatigue in his voice. When he’d arrived at the training yard an hour earlier, just as the sun rose from behind the eastern mountain peaks, she had noticed his general lack of cheer. But it was no more than usual. Or so she’d thought.

She’d made it her mission over the past few weeks to ensure that he could at least funnel that morning rancor into something productive. Better she bear it than the poor scouts who’d taken to tiptoeing around his tower like mice before he’d worked some of it out.

“You should have told me,” she murmured, feeling instantly guilty. “I know I’m an ass, but I would have given you the day off.”

He smiled, but didn’t meet her gaze. “It’s nothing. Just a long night. This helps, actually.”

“Cullen—”

“It’s fine,” he said more forcefully, his face going distant. “Truly. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

Rebuilding Skyhold over the past month, ensuring that their people were well-fed and safe had been difficult. It had required long, arduous hours of work, and more patience than anyone except Josephine could display with grace. Each member of the council was worn thin in their own way—Cassandra projecting her zeal and work ethic on everyone else with impunity, Josephine burying herself so deep into correspondence and finances that she’d fallen asleep at her desk more nights than not, Leliana’s sharp eyes grown heavy with dark circles as she coordinated the vast network of spies and ravens coming and going from her tower. And Roslyn…

Well, there was a reason why she’d taken to practicing swordplay every opportunity she got. Stillness led to memories of screaming children and burning houses, red and black wings blocking out the sky.

“All right,” she relented, “but I’m making you take the day off tomorrow. I’ll ask Krem to spar with me. I won’t have you dragging yourself out of bed just to humor me. I’m demanding, but not cruelly so.”

Cullen nodded, the flash of a weak smile showing at the edge of his lips before he met her gaze. “Very well, my lady.”

She elbowed him softly in the side. “Stop that right now. You know our deal.”

“Sorry, Roslyn,” he murmured, giving her another forced smile. “I have some orders that need looking over.” His eyes brightened as they focused over her shoulder, and there was a softness to his absent smile. “And it seems your services are needed elsewhere.”

She glanced around as a small thatch of yellow hair and pointed ears wove along the edge of the training field with his nose almost folded into the pages of a book.

“Tell the little scholar he owes me a game of chess, will you?”

Roslyn frowned. “Tell him yourself.”

He shook his head. “I can’t refuse the boy this morning if he decides to ask me about Ferelden marriage practices.” He smiled fondly as he watched Adi maneuver his way through soldiers. “I swear, he reads more in a day than I do in a month.”

She grinned. “It probably doesn’t help that you have an army to manage and a fortress to defend.” In spite of their rocky start, she’d come to enjoy Cullen’s company. He was gruff yet stiff, sour yet surprisingly clever, and became delightfully flustered every time she made an off-color joke. As Cassandra had begun to skip more and more council meetings, she’d found him the only other member who was just as tired of the endless subterfuge and pussy-footing that seemed to occupy the Inquisition’s new matters of business. And now that she knew what she was looking for, he was astonishingly easy to read. It made him rather difficult not to like. “Cullen—”

“I’m fine.” His face grew tight again, and he drew himself back up with purpose. “I know you like to joke, but you are improving. It hasn’t gone unnoticed. And—well,” he broke off, frowning, “I just want you to know that you have my ear should you need it. That is, I understand the pressure you must be under. All of us are grateful for the front you’ve shown the Inquisition.” He hesitated, meeting her gaze with an intense amount of sincerity. “It means more than you know.”

The sentiment was too similar to her conversation with Iron Bull when they’d first arrived at Skyhold. It put her on edge. They’d all been under pressure. There was nothing special about the way she interacted with the Inquisition. Not really.

She forced a smirk onto her face and batted her eyelashes. “Are you trying to flirt with me, Cullen?”

“What?” he barked, blush exploding over his pale skin. His eyes went wide with alarm and, to her annoyance, a small amount of horror. “I—of course not.” He deflated somewhat when she winked at him. “Right. I’m leaving now.”

Roslyn smiled, relieved as the weight fled his expression. It reminded her too much of the way Leliana had taken to staring at her during council meetings, as if judging her every word. How Cassandra’s gaze would sometimes follow her with a hopeful intensity that made her skin crawl.

“I’ll see you in the council chambers in a few hours,” she called. “Try not to give your soldiers heart palpitations.”

Cullen lifted a hand in a half-hearted salute as he left her at the edge of the practice field.

Roslyn watched him go, catching Cassandra’s stare before she could turn away with an ungraceful cough.

_Why does that make me nervous?_

Plastering a smile onto her face, she turned just in time to see Adi walk straight toward a tree at the edge of the training field. She jogged out from under the awning, caught the edge of his collar and tugged back, finally drawing his attention from the book and stopping him before colliding face first with the tree.

“What are you reading today that has enraptured you so?” She pulled the large book out of his hands as he extricated himself from her grip, careful to mark his page with her finger. She’d been scolded for losing it before. “More Brother Genitivi?”

Adi scowled, smoothing his hair. The tips of his pointed ears were beet-red. “I wasn’t going to hit the tree.”

Roslyn arched an eyebrow. “Grow another eye on your forehead?” She mussed up his hair again, not bothering to hide her grin as he shoved away from her.

He rolled his eyes, but Roslyn saw the edges of his mouth twitch as he twisted around to look behind her. “I thought you were practicing again today?”

“I was, but Cullen had to go and lick his wounds before the council meeting later. He was practically crying on his way out. Poor man.”

“I’m sure he was.” Adi frowned and deflated.

“He said you owe him a match when he has the time.”

“Mhmm,” he mumbled, reaching up for his book without meeting her gaze.

“Am I such a bore that you can’t even conjure some excitement for me?”

He slid a piece of string through the pages and looked up at her with an indulgent frown that was growing more and more customary. It made him look much older, and much more solemn than his twelve years. “I see you every day.”

She snorted and steered him in front of her, leading him away from the training field and down to the second-tier courtyard. “You really know how to make a woman feel wanted, Adaleni.”

Adi sighed, playing the role of the beleaguered scholar well.

“You didn’t answer my question.” She tried to tweak his ear, but he jerked his head out of her reach. “What are we reading about today?”

“Ferelden monarchs up to and during the Orlesian occupation.” His voice brightened as he continued, “Queen Moira sounds fascinating.”

Roslyn nodded to people as they walked down the long, clogged stairway to the second level of the courtyard, listening to Adi tell her all about the Rebel Queen, King Alistair’s grandmother. It was only an hour after sunrise, and yet Skyhold was already in full swing. Builders and masons went back and forth atop the outer walls, pushing carts of stone before them and hauling huge wooden beams in their wake. Men and women shouted to each other over the din of pounding metal and creaking ropes. The scent of smoke mixed with that of the kitchens as the cooks prepared the morning meal. Hundreds of people milled about the courtyard, all with different jobs, all of them focused and determined.

The expressions of fear were few and far between now, and it was only every once in a while that someone would stop and look to the sky in fear of black scales and leathery wings. No one had time to be scared anymore, as Skyhold was proving to be something of a difficult mend. While the structure was intact and remarkably well-kept, certain areas of the fortress were harder to refurbish than others. Most of the undercroft had either rotted or fallen away without upkeep and the outer structures and guard towers needed more than a cosmetic fix. Floors and walls had to be entirely replaced, and while the position of the fortress was ideal for its protection and security, its remote location made it hard to come by fresh supplies.

Roslyn maneuvered Adi away from the makeshift healing tents along the retaining wall of the lower courtyard. The dark set of his eyes and the small quiver in his jaw when he’d seen them weeks ago had been enough to tell her it was a mistake to visit the tents with him. 

He’d been visiting her less often at night now as he began to understand that their arrangement couldn’t last forever. He still wasn’t getting along with the other children—one of the drawbacks of being far too clever for his own good—but he was trying. It also didn’t help that he was a bit older than the other orphans, still too young to be put to work, but old enough not to distract with the others. She was careful not to upset him, not knowing what might bring back memories of his father, and his mother before that. In the span of a single year, he’d lost both his parents. It was a wonder the boy wasn’t catatonic. 

They stopped to greet the morning vendors as they usually did, coming away with an apple for Roslyn and a small meat pie for Adi. They ate while he continued to tell her about Moira Theirin’s daring and improbable escape from Greenthorn Village, how she outwitted the Orlesians and reunited with her bannermen despite the odds.

They circled the lower courtyard once, following what had become their daily circuit through the builders and smiths, before she caught sight of two familiar figures talking to one another with purposefully clipped and polite expressions. Well, one was trying to be polite. 

She hid her grin as they approached Solas and Dorian standing in the shadow of the staircase leading up to the North Tower.

“—don’t see what your tastes have anything to do with my organization of the library,” Dorian snapped, his expression caught between exasperated and amused. “We barely have a working section on Orlesian chivalric history and I don’t even want to start on the piss-poor excuse for magical theory that the southern mages managed to bundle with them from their Circles.”

“I was merely suggesting some additions, Dorian. As you seem to be lacking texts in areas outside your expertise—”

Dorian scoffed in only slightly-faked outrage. “You horribly snide—”

“Morning,” Roslyn called before Dorian could finish, staring at him pointedly as she and Adi approached. “I see you two are getting along magnificently, as usual.”

Solas inclined his head, hiding a smile, as Dorian deflated with a dramatic sigh.

“Of course, dear Herald.” Dorian shot a wink at Adi, who had gone tense. “Greetings, young Adaleni. I trust the library has served you well today? Thank you for leaving a note last night about the texts you borrowed, though I wonder if it wouldn’t be more expedient for you to set up a cot in the stacks instead of lugging ten volumes up and down the stairs every few days.”

Solas met Adi’s gaze with a small smile. “ _Ma nuvenin loahne ghalana shan’vunin, da’modhen._ ”

“ _Ma serannas, hahren,_ ” Adi murmured, keeping his eyes down.

“What is your opinion about the inclusion of a section devoted to the Imperium in the library tower?” Dorian asked Roslyn, apparently disinterested in the elven being exchanged.

“Nonexistent.” She caught Solas’s furrowed brow as he watched Adi. Apparently she wasn’t the only one to notice the boy’s discomfort. “I think you need to make sure you’re coordinating with Minaeve before you change anything around, though. She seems to be very…enthusiastic about the process.”

The Circle mage had set up shop inside the tower two days after arriving and hadn’t left since, even when Dorian began dropping hints about taking over the responsibility of cataloguing the texts they’d found and brought with them. Her tight-lipped expression of fury when Dorian had suggested rearranging her filing system was enough to keep Roslyn smiling for an entire afternoon.

“She has a wonderfully precise mind,” Dorian allowed, “but her absurd insistence on filing everything according to a second age Chantry system is beyond me…”

Roslyn let Dorian continue, her attention diverted by a loud shout from the other side of the stables. A small group of workers was finishing the last touches on the reinforced northwest guard tower, a project that had taken them nearly the whole month to accomplish. One man barked orders at the rest, marching behind them, seemingly displeased with the effort on his team’s behalf.

Her mind slowed to a halt when she realized that all of the workers were elves.

The man shoved one of the elves with another shout, screaming something she couldn’t make out over the din of hammers and shouting. She didn’t need to hear the words, though. She could feel them in the flinching of the other elves, in the nervous looks people gave the scene as they passed. In his anger, and his violence.

She forced herself to remove her hands from Adi’s shoulders before she could clench them. 

She should leave it alone. Interfering with a petty tyrant who pushed his workers too hard was not included in her responsibilities as Herald. She took a deep breath and tried to ignore the pounding in her ears, the recognition as the other elves shoot each other hard, knowing glances.

The elf who had been shoved straightened up, and stared defiantly back at his overseer. His look was one Roslyn knew so well she didn’t need to hear his words. She could have felt it in her bones. The two men stared at each other, neither willing to back down. And then the human backhanded the elf so hard he hit the ground.

She felt the impact as if the man had hit her, as if she were standing in the cool marble hallways of the Emerald Cove, as if her sister’s sneering face was the only thing she could see.

“Adi, stay here,” she said sharply. She moved him to the side, closer to Solas, and started walking.

The courtyard went silent as she passed. Eyes followed her, but for once in her life, she forgot them. She couldn’t look away from the elf on the ground, and the human bending over him.

The elves pressed themselves against the wall, continuing to work as their overseer screamed. Through the roaring in her ears she caught the end of it.

“—lazy ass and do something, then I wouldn’t need to be so hard on you _knife-ears_.”

Her heart slammed against her ribcage. Adrenaline rose and rushed through her veins. The wolf stirred, sensing the rage building in the back of her mind. Its low growl vibrated down her spine as the rest of the courtyard faded.

The elf wiped dirt off his cheek and turned hard, rage-filled eyes on the man, only to freeze when he saw Roslyn coming toward them.

The human—grizzled, dirty, and reeking of sweat—raised his hand again in preparation for another strike. “Now get off the ground and do your job, rab—”

Roslyn grabbed the man’s wrist, pulling him back so violently he stumbled.

He jerked around as he caught his footing, face red with fury. “The fuck do you think you’re—” His eyes widened in horrified recognition. He opened his mouth to speak, but broke off as she wrenched his hand to the side.

Arcane energy caged his forearm in a bristling glove, fueling her strength as she forced him down. He gasped in pain and fell to his knees without a fight, wrist still locked in her grip.

Her anger rose like bile in her throat. Blood pounded in her ears. It was all she could do not to let her energy spike into the man’s face. 

“Please continue,” she said quietly, slowly. “What were you going to call this man in your service?”

All of Skyhold seemed to freeze. The sound of hammering and the mingling of voices hawking their wares disappeared as silence descended. Every person who could do so was watching her. 

_Good._

The human opened his mouth and closed it, sweat pouring down his face as it turned purple.

“Am I mistaken in thinking you were about to call him ‘rabbit?’ ”

The elf in the corner of her vision was still, as if moving even an inch might break the spell over the courtyard. The rest of his crew were similarly afflicted, none of them daring to breathe.

“N-no, milady,” the human choked, a small tremor going through his chin. “I—that is…”

“Do you really think it’s a good idea to lie to me right now?” she asked, voice chillingly calm.

The knot in his neck bobbed and his eyes flashed to the side, as if looking for someone who might be able to help him.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” she murmured, her grip tightening. Sparks flew from her hand and the wolf rose to bear its teeth. 

The human blanched, deflating as he took in her expression. “I-I’m so sorry, milady, I d-didn’t mean anything by it, I swear.”

“Tell me what you were going to call him.”

She should have let it go. It wasn’t her fight.

But the singular surge of rage when she’d seen him backhand the elf, the immediate memory of nails biting into the back of her ears, the terror clawing at her mind every time she so much as heard the word—

“R-rabbit, milady,” the human choked, his eyes starting to water in pain or fear—she didn’t know, or care.

“That’s what I thought. And I already heard you call him ‘knife-ear.’ ” She paused, reining in her anger before she lost control of her magic. She couldn’t hurt him. Not that badly. “Can you imagine why I might take offense to that term being thrown around so casually?”

He nodded jerkingly. He was terrified of her, she realized with a dim kind of satisfaction.

“You will never call anyone a ‘rabbit’ or ‘knife-ear’ again. Am I understood?”

“Yes, yes, of course, Herald,” he whimpered.

She forced herself to release his hand, pulling her magic back inside, taming it. _Control the situation_ , some part of her whispered, _or they’ll think you’re just another mad mage._

“I know these past few months have been hard on all of us. You must be feeling the strain of command.” She looked at the elf, now rising to his feet and brushing what mud he could off his pants. A bruise was starting to form on his cheek. “I think it might be good for you to share your burdens. Perhaps you need a partner to help in overseeing your crew.”

The elf’s eyes widened in shock as the human spluttered, “M-milady, I don’t think that’s necessary—”

“I think it’s more than necessary,” she snapped. She raised her voice slightly so that the people watching her could hear. “What is your name, serah?”

“Iwan, Herald,” the elf said at once. He had a strange accent she hadn’t heard before—almost like Solas’, but muddier, a bit Ferelden.

“Do you have any experience leading a work crew, Iwan?”

“Aye, m’am, I do. I helped rebuild Denerim after the Blight.”

_That’s a relief_ , she thought with a nod. At least it wouldn’t be an empty gesture. “It sounds like Iwan is ready to help you.” She turned back to the human on the ground, now watching her with a mixture of hesitation and confusion. He’d probably expected her to blast off his arm, or something equally violent. “I trust the job will go much more smoothly with someone else to help with the burden.”

The human’s eyes flashed to the elf, and he nodded slowly.

“Then I think the only thing in order now is your sincere apology.”

A small, muffled gasp went through the watching crowd, but she ignored it.

The human opened and closed his mouth, as if he were trying to work himself up to it. “I—yes, I am s-sorry.” He swallowed, looking at the elf. “Deeply sorry.”

Iwan said nothing, but the disgust in his eyes was obvious.

_Just accept it and move on_ , she urged him silently. “Excellent. I trust you gentlemen can put the matter behind you.” She looked back at the elf, hoping he would understand what she was trying to do. It wouldn’t work if he turned around and baited the idiot.

Iwan stared at her, held her gaze as he extended his hand to the man on the ground.

Well. It could have gone worse. 

She took a step back, trying to release the tension in her shoulders. Her heart was still racing, but her ears didn’t burn as much. “I think we all need to get back to work, don’t we?”

The elf nodded, followed closely by the man. The entire crew behind them was still frozen as she turned away.

Her stomach lurched as she saw just how many people had stopped to watch the confrontation. The whole of Skyhold was looking at her. She breathed through her anxiety and began walking through the crowd. Luckily, most of them seemed to take the hint and got back to their work. She noticed, though, that the elves watched her more intently than the humans, most of whom had guilt or shame written on their faces. The elves just seemed surprised.

By the staircase where she’d left them, Dorian and Adi were watching her with barely-concealed shock. Solas’s eyes were hard, but he didn’t seem surprised or scandalized.

He seemed angry.

“Sorry about that,” she murmured when she joined them, not knowing what else to say. She couldn’t get the image of the elf falling to the ground out of her head. “I think I’m going to have to cut our morning stroll short today, Adi. I need to go speak to Ambassador Montilyet.”

She would need to explain this before word got out that she was promoting random elves. They were already strapped for funds, and while she knew Josephine would understand, or so she hoped, it didn’t make her job any easier.

“You two heading back to the library?” she asked forcefully.

“Yes, I think we were,” Dorian murmured, seeming to catch her desire not to speak about what just happened. It was bad enough she’d done it in front of Adi. She didn’t know how to begin explaining _that_ to Dorian, of all people. “I’m sure one of us could find something for the young lad to do.”

“Of course,” Solas agreed, his face now carefully blank.

Adi just nodded, still watching Roslyn with over-bright eyes.

“Then let’s go,” she said, holding out her hand slowly for Adi to take it.

He did without hesitation, tucking his book under his other arm.

Dorian gracefully lapsed back into a discussion of filing systems and the woes of Chantry organization, Solas joining without missing a step. _Maker bless both of them._ She was beyond grateful she’d caught them before leaving Adi alone. They made their way up the curving outside staircase, entering the circular tower where Solas had set up a small work area under the library and rookery.

She was so distracted by her own thoughts that she almost missed the gentle tug on her hand as she entered the rotunda. She looked down. Adi had stopped in the alcove, determination written on his face.

“Adi?”

He looked toward Solas and Dorian, who had paused a few feet away from them outside the hallway. She caught his intention, and knelt down as she met their eyes. Both of them seemed to understand the boy’s desire for privacy, and moved further into the tower.

“You hurt that man,” he said slowly.

_Shit_. She didn’t know how the fuck she was supposed to respond. “Yes. But only because he hurt someone else.”

“No. You hurt him because he hurt an elf.”

Roslyn watched him, realizing that he understood perfectly. “Yes,” she started hesitantly, “but it wouldn’t have been all right for him to hurt anyone else either.”

Adi nodded quickly and said, “I know that, but…” He frowned, in that mature, solemn way he’d begun to develop over the past month. It made a little part of her constrict in sorrow. “You don’t have to shelter me, you know. He was abusing that man.”

She took a deep breath, trying not to think about the fact that Solas and Dorian could hear everything she said. “I—I don’t like bullies. It’s very easy to pick on people you see as lesser than you. In this case, that man thought that elf was lesser than him, and so he punched down to make himself feel better. What he did was cruel. I wanted to teach him a lesson. Hopefully, he won’t do that again.”

Adi’s brow furrowed. “But you can’t know for sure.”

“No, I don’t. But I would like to think that people are generally good. Maybe he didn’t understand what he was doing before.” _And I’m the bleeding Divine._ “He might change.”

He just stared at her, a stillness settling over his young features. His bright hazel eyes flicked to her ears, visible with her hair still tied back from practicing with Cullen. “You were abused.”

It wasn’t a question, and she didn’t know if she could answer if it had been. Her chest grew tight as she stared at this young boy, a boy who’d seen his father murdered before his eyes, and was still every bit as kind and bright as he had always been.

Slowly, he moved toward her, wrapping his free arm around her shoulder and pressing his face into her hair. Her eyes burned with the sudden rush of emotion, and it took her a moment to return his embrace. 

“I’m so sorry, Roslyn,” he murmured, his voice unearthing something tender at the roots of her heart. 

She swallowed the lump in her throat and laughed, trying to banish the urge to sob. “It’s all right, little tree,” she managed. “I made it out just fine.” She pulled back, brushing his thatch of hair back from his forehead, cupping his face with both her hands. “Thank you, Adaleni.”

He blinked a few times, apparently not so solemn that he couldn’t be affected as well.

“Can you promise me something, though?”

He nodded between her hands.

“I need you to start learning how to control your magic.”

He tensed at once, retreating into himself.

“I understand why you’re scared,” she continued, dropping her hands to his tunic to straighten it out, to give herself something to do while she gathered the tattered threads of her emotions. “I was scared too. But there are people here who can help you.” She gestured with her head to where Dorian and Solas where talking stiffly about the proper construction of a warding glyph. “Those two are pretty smart. You can learn a lot from them. Or there are other mages here. You’ve got a lot of options, actually. Better than anywhere else in Thedas.”

“And you can’t teach me?” he asked slowly, as if he’d been working up to the question for a while now.

She let out a small sigh, grimacing. She considered him, remembering the ferocious power which had swarmed out of him the day his father died. “You don’t want to learn from me, Adi,” she murmured. “Maybe one day, but not now. You shouldn’t know the kind of magic I could teach you. Trust me.”

He studied her face, his brow creasing in confusion. “All right,” he mumbled after a while.

She took his chin in one hand, giving him a little shake. “ _Ma serannas_.”

He smiled, though his eyes strayed to the pair of mages at their side, his expression souring as if he were forced to choose between two terrible options.

“You should make them work for it, too,” she murmured. “They would like nothing more than to fight for who gets to teach you.”

He smiled in full then as Dorian sighed dramatically. She grinned as she rose, pushing him gently into the rotunda. “And you should go thank Minaeve. I can’t think you taking all these books out every few days is helping her keep track of everything.”

“I write them all down,” he said sourly. He shot Solas and Dorian a wary, if polite nod, and walked through to the winding staircase. He gave her a last, lingering look, something like sorrow flitting behind his bright eyes, before he disappeared from view.

“Precocious lad, isn’t he?” Dorian asked, shooting her a sharp, intent look.

She hummed in agreement, trying to fight her sense of awkwardness now that she didn’t have Adaleni as a buffer.

“I’m glad you’re pushing him to train.” Dorian continued over the tense pause. “I’ve been fielding increasingly insistent reminders from Madame de Fer, and I know a few of your former compatriots in arms have been asking after him.”

She nodded, troubled. She’d received the same innocently phrased inquiries by Cullen and Barris. No one wanted a young and untrained mage running around Skyhold, especially not one who had awakened in such a violent way. “He’ll come around. You just have to give him time.”

She glanced at Solas before she could help it. He was watching her closely, his expression too careful for her liking. He would know exactly how much she sympathized with Adaleni. She looked away before she could see anything else. 

“I really don’t understand the hesitation,” Dorian mused. “You’d think he’d sprouted a second head. Magic is a marvelous thing for a child to learn. All the fun of daydreaming with the ability to back it up. Are all you southerners so dour about everything?”

She didn’t meet his gaze, instead looking out at the mostly bare rotunda. Solas had set up his desk of scattered supplies and thrown his herbs haphazardly on the ground near it. Behind the desk lay a bundle of tarp hiding something she couldn’t recognize. _More supplies_ , she guessed.

She waited until she was sure her voice was steady, until she had control over herself again. “How did your magic surface, Dorian?”

“I—well it just sort of happened, didn’t it? I think I was walking in the gardens with my mother and I conjured a few handfuls of sparkles. She nearly fainted from happiness, I was so young. Scion of House Pavus, and a prodigy to boot. I think she actually dined with me that night to celebrate.”

She bit back her anger at the pride in his voice, knowing that his life had been entirely different than hers. He grew up in Tevinter, she reminded herself. He had no reason to fear his magic.

“Mine exploded from my chest when I was thirteen,” she said slowly, reliving the panic and terror as white light slammed through her mind. “My half-sister’s nails were dug into the skin behind my ear. She nearly ripped it clean off when I burned half her face off in the blast. Apparently I scorched the stone so badly, they couldn’t replace it without redoing the entire wing. The healers thought Helena had been paralyzed from the impact when she hit the wall.” _They might have just killed me and been done with it, were that the case. Lucky for me she lived without complication._

Dorian’s expression had frozen somewhere between horror and concern.

“Adaleni’s magic surfaced as a result of watching his father get cut down in front of him by a corrupted templar. You can’t understand his hesitation to revisit that moment?”

“No, of course I do,” he murmured, his expression softening with pity. “I didn’t think.”

“It’s different for those of us who came into the world with blood on our hands,” she said after a long pause, swallowing the surge of self-loathing at the look in his eyes. She stepped back, dragging up some semblance of formality as she turned. “I do need to go talk to Josephine. Though, I’m sure everyone already knows about what I did to that asshole.” She shook her head. _Or Leliana does, anyway_. “I’ll see you both later.”

She did not look at Solas. 

Roslyn walked away before either could say anything more. Maybe it was the stress of the last few months, but a part of her was almost glad to let it out, however much it grated on the way. Just like she’d been glad Varric had forced her to talk about her experience when her tower fell. It wasn’t something she needed to hide anymore.

She just—couldn’t see the pity in their eyes. It made everything ten times worse.

Rolling back her shoulders as she entered the main hall of the keep, she let the images of the elf named Iwan falling to the ground, of her own anger, wash over her. It might not have been her place to intervene, but no one else seemed inclined to do anything. And if those elves slept more soundly because they knew someone would stand in front of them, it was worth it. If she could do that much as Herald, then maybe she could learn to like the title. 

_One day_ , she thought with a grimace.


	7. Rise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Rise Up" by Imagine Dragons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zdUKuUpQPUI&index=7&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&t=0s)

The stained glass windows looked out over the outline of the mountain peaks surrounding Skyhold, beautiful and grand in the early morning light. Roslyn traced them carefully, as if by staring at them she might be able to ease the tension in her chest, the prickling anxiety crawling up her spine.

The room was large, surrounded on three sides by beautiful windows giving her a clear view of most of Skyhold’s lower compound. The hallway connecting it to Josephine’s office was still under repair, but the room itself had been finished only the previous day, its floors buffed to a shine, the windows repaired, the walls washed, the smell of dust banished with a thorough airing out. Behind her sat a finely made table, a table cut from the tree one of Skyhold’s former tenants had found and wanted to preserve.

On the table was spread their patchy, water-stained map, the same map they had dragged from the burning ruins of Haven, over the length of the Frostback Mountains—one of the only remnants of that small, dark room in the back of the Haven chantry where all of this had begun. 

Roslyn turned back to meet the waiting gazes of the Inquisition’s council. Josephine sat at her far right, staring politely up at her over her portable writing desk. She’d opted for a fine tunic and trousers today—an elegant gold and red combination that almost made her match Cullen. He stood on the ambassador’s left, hands clasped over the pommel of his sword and watching her closely. Cassandra and Leliana stood together on the other side of the table. Cassandra was looking down at the map with a forced nonchalance, purposefully not meeting Roslyn’s gaze, but Leliana was watching her so sharply it made Roslyn think she was trying to burn a hole into her forehead.

She took a deep breath, clenched her hands behind her back to stop them from shaking. “You’ve discussed this amongst yourselves, I assume?” 

“Extensively,” Josephine said with a knowing smile. “We would have included you, of course, but some of us felt that you might be less inclined to a healthy debate about the subject.” She shot Cullen and Cassandra a stern look. “If I’d had my way, I would have brought it to your attention immediately, my lady.”

“No, I understand,” Roslyn murmured, smiling despite her discomfort. “It’s not that I’m ungrateful for the vote of confidence, but I want to make sure you’ve thought about this.”

Cullen let out a small laugh. “You see? I told you.”

“You can’t expect me to accept, Cullen.”

“Why not?” Leliana’s head tilted in consideration. “It cannot be much of a surprise.”

Roslyn took a deep breath, stalling for time while she worked through the knot in her throat. “I didn’t say I was surprised.”

“So, you have considered it?” Josephine asked, leaning forward in her seat and setting her writing desk down.

“In the sense that I thought you all would be mad enough to offer it to me? Yes.”

“Why is it so mad?” Leliana asked. “What exactly makes you unfit to become Inquisitor?”

Roslyn had to fight her instinctual reaction. “I’m sure I could give you plenty of reasons.”

“Besides your own fear,” Leliana countered.

“ _Leliana_.” Josephine looked askance at her friend.

“No, actually, that would have been my first point.” Roslyn shifted, bracing herself against the table for support. “Since I would be the one accepting this position, my concern is something to take under consideration, I think. Wouldn’t you rather have someone eager for the job?”

“And where are we going to find such a person?” Cullen asked with a laugh. “Besides, I don’t want someone who fancies himself a tyrant taking over. Honestly, the fact that you _don’t_ want it makes me want to give it to you more.”

Roslyn frowned. “That makes no sense.”

“Of course it does,” he answered with a fond smile. “Just not to you.”

“What are your concerns, Roslyn?” Cassandra asked calmly.

Roslyn took a moment to order her thoughts, disliking the amused gleam in Cassandra’s eyes. “I’m a mage.”

In the silence that followed, she could tell all of them were trying not to smile.

“We are aware,” Josephine said.

“Right, so you understand that it’s not a simple matter of handing me another title. The ‘Herald of Andraste’ didn’t come with land or any actual authority. It was just,” she waved her hand in frustration, “a formality. Making me Inquisitor is, by Chantry law, _illegal_. I cannot hold titles or land.”

Josephine’s smile tightened. “The Chantry is still in shambles. Any attempt to enforce such backward laws would lack the necessary political weight or be met with severe opposition.” Her eyes sharpened, and a hint of distaste pulled at the edge of her pursed lips. “You underestimate the effect you had on the assembly when you addressed them in the Grand Cathedral. Many clerics, mothers, and sisters have written to us to send their well-wishes in the wake of what happened at Haven. And to express their unspoken support for whomever we choose to lead us.”

Roslyn stared, unable to comprehend the idea that anyone at that assembly had thought her more than an obstinate foe. “There will be some who will take offense.”

“Yes, there will,” Josephine said simply. “Another thing the council has discussed.”

“I should add,” Leliana murmured, “that we have also agreed to accept whatever opposition your leadership might incur.”

She breathed through the knot forming in her chest, unable to put to words what it meant that they would even consider dealing with the ramifications. Making her their Herald was one thing—they hadn’t had a choice when it came to her mark. The title had already been foisted on her by the soldiers, and by claiming the Herald, they lent their Inquisition legitimacy.

This was something else altogether.

“Fine,” she muttered, “setting aside the fact that I am a mage, I am also the illegitimate, elf-blooded child of Marcher nobility. A blessed mark from Andraste herself might explain away my magic, but no one is going to be able to write off my race. Orlais might be more lenient with my other… _eccentricities_ ,” she grimaced as she tried to think of the most polite term they might use to describe her, “but you cannot expect me to believe a half-elf would be treated to anything less than contempt by the Court.”

Beyond Orlais, she could think of a few Marcher lords, Helena included, who might declare outright war at the idea of anyone with elven blood leading the Inquisition.

“It doesn’t matter what you are,” Cullen said in a hard voice, almost as if he were trying to convince himself.

“Of course it matters,” she said with a weak smile. She could tell he was trying to be kind, like Dorian or Solas trying to explain to her why magic shouldn’t be feared. It was an empty comfort, and while she appreciated it, she didn’t want it.

“Perhaps Orlais will need to change, then,” Leliana said in a low voice. She stepped forward, unfolding her arms and bracing her hands against the table. “Perhaps it is time to force them to change. You have won the support of the people, and good opinion here is worth more than approval from those in power. They want to stay in power, no? There are ways we can display how dangerous opposing you might become.”

Roslyn stared at Leliana, struck by the emotion ringing in her voice. She’d known Leliana was ruthless, but she hadn’t taken her for a revolutionary.

“Again,” Josephine added, “I think you underestimate your influence. Ferelden is now our ally. I have some hope where Orzammar is concerned as well. We are quickly becoming a force to be reckoned with. It would be madness not to treat with us, especially once it becomes clear that they need your help.” Her smile was quick. “Your mark is quite the bargaining tool where the rifts are concerned.”

Roslyn laughed. “You want me to blackmail them into working with us?”

Josephine tilted her head, a roguish glint in her eyes. “Blackmail is such a nasty word.”

Cullen snorted, and even Cassandra smiled.

Leliana’s expression remained determined. “Do not think that we are the only ones taking a risk if you were to become Inquisitor. All of Thedas would now look at you as a threat. To take on that kind of power would be to make yourself a target, even more so than you are now.” She paused, and her expression softened. “I will not underscore the pressure you would face, Herald. This is not a position you should take lightly, nor one that will lead to happiness.”

It wasn’t sympathy in the spymaster’s eyes, but consideration for her fears. Perhaps that was why Roslyn couldn’t dismiss it so easily. 

She took a deep breath and frowned, turning to Cassandra at last. This moment, more than anything, was what she’d been dreading most. “You started this,” she murmured. “Why in Maker’s name would you step down now?”

The room was quiet as Cassandra studied her. Her expression was calm, serene even. She looked—not older, but somehow more wise. Roslyn had never realized just how much younger she actually was than the seeker who’d become her close friend. She was practically a child in comparison.

“I have never been the Inquisition’s leader, Roslyn,” Cassandra said at last. “I would have stepped up in time, I think, but not anymore. I see the Maker’s hand in your actions, just as I did all those months ago. This position was never mine to wield, nor is it my place to give you permission for you to take it.” She raised her head, pride glowing in her eyes. “You have already been leading us, if not in name, then in practice. You freed the templars from Envy’s control. You had the foresight to help the mages. You negotiated the peaceful cooperation of those same two bodies, who were at _war_ with one another. You closed the Breach, and _you_ were the one to face the monster this Inquisition was founded to destroy. You led us here.” She paused, shaking her head with an indulgent smile. “You have earned our loyalty and deference ten times over, and I would challenge you to find one person in Skyhold who does not agree with me.”

Roslyn clenched her jaw as her eyes burned with the start of tears. She looked away, unable to hold Cassandra’s gaze without falling to pieces. It was—she couldn’t describe the wealth of emotion brimming inside her chest. Her first reaction was to deny it. She would never be able to live up to that kind of faith. When laid out on paper her achievements might seem impressive, but each step was just a combination of luck and her own stubborn refusal not to die. It didn’t mean she should lead them, or even could.

She looked to Cullen, blinking to clear her eyes. “You’re in agreement?”

He smiled, affection shining in his eyes. “You already know what that I am.”

She frowned, her voice tight. “You’re all mad. I have no idea how to lead you. I don’t know anything about troop movements or politics or—,” she broke off, looking at Leliana with a plea, “fuck, I don’t even know what _you_ do.”

Leliana smirked at her. “Then I think I am doing my job well.”

“I would ask as your advisor that you do not attempt to take over our roles, my lady,” Josephine said with a tinkling laugh. “We have no intention of dissolving the council.”

“None of us are going anywhere, Herald.” Cullen gave her a weary look. “I’m afraid we’re all in this for the long haul.”

She shook her head, as if it might help her to make some sense of it all. _This is insane._

“I know you think yourself unworthy of the responsibility,” Cassandra said gently, “but trust that we would not lay all our hopes at your feet without due cause.”

Roslyn found it hard to hold her gaze. “Well, now you’ve put me in a difficult position. Either I disagree and proclaim you all idiots, or I admit that I am just as mad for agreeing.”

“Difficult indeed to admit our own insanity,” Cassandra said with an arched brow.

Roslyn let out a shaky laugh and stepped back from the table, running a hand through her hair. She stared again over the mountains. The sun was nearly risen now—Skyhold would be bustling. Refugees and pilgrims were pouring in by the hundreds every week, all of them coming to see for themselves that the Inquisition had survived the impossible.

That _she_ had survived the impossible.

Her wolf shifted in the back of her mind, brushed its fur against her cheek. _I’m already mad,_ she thought. _Might as well make it official._ She stared down at her marked palm, watching the glyph glisten in the light refracted through the latticed windows.

The anchor was hers for a reason. She felt that in her bones now. It couldn’t have been an accident. 

_I feel the Maker’s will in your actions._

Cassandra believed in her. The woman who had once attacked her and clapped her in chains believed she was worthy of following. _Let that be enough, then._

Roslyn clenched her jaw and turned back to the council, _her_ council. “I can’t think of another verse to recite right now, but I accept your offer.”

Cullen’s barking laugh eased some of her tension.

“You’ll have time to think of something, of course,” Josephine said with a beaming smile. She stood and smoothed her tunic, eyes brimming with tears, just as they had before Haven had fallen. “Oh,” she started with a happy noise, walking around the table to pull Roslyn into a hug, “I’m so glad you’ve agreed, Roslyn. You’ll be extraordinary.”

Roslyn froze, taken aback by the display of affection. “Ah—thank you, Josephine.”

Josephine drew back and bustled back to her writing desk, expression glowing. “Now I can finally start preparing in earnest for the ceremony. A small affair,” she added, looking back over her shoulder to meet Roslyn’s alarmed expression, “nothing to worry about. But the longer we go without an official declaration, the more trouble it will get us into later. I will take care of all the details, you just need to show up and say something inspiring.” She smiled as she turned for the door, already scribbling something across her hand-held desk. “That shouldn’t be too difficult for you, I think.”

Roslyn watched her leave the room, practically skipping on her way out, and her stomach sank. “I’ve changed my mind,” she said darkly. “Make Varric Inquisitor.”

Cullen snorted as he edged around the table, hesitating before he clapped her on the shoulder. “You’ll do fine, Roslyn. You can always write something up beforehand.”

“I think it might lessen the effect if I’m reading from my hand.”

He rubbed at the back of his neck, sending Cassandra a half-hearted smile. “Indeed. Well. I have some business to attend to before we throw ourselves into preparations for whatever madness Josephine has in mind.” He paused, meeting her gaze awkwardly. “That is—unless you need anything?”

Roslyn blinked. “Ah—no, of course not.”

“Right,” he breathed, frowning as he turned and left for the doorway.

“It will certainly take some time to get used to the change,” Cassandra mused, unable to hide her wry smile. “But we are all ready to follow you, Roslyn. Wherever you decide to lead us.”

She looked blankly from Cassandra to Leliana. “We have to stop Coryphea.”

Leliana smiled wryly. “That was our wish as well.”

“Well. Good.” What else did they expect her to do? Declare a war on nugs? “Glad we’re getting off to a smooth start.”

“There are matters I would like to speak to you about,” Leliana said, “after the ceremony. If you are to accept this role, you will also need to accept some…precautions. For your own protection.”

“This just gets better and better,” Roslyn answered with a grim smile, but nodded.

Leliana looked between her and Cassandra. Hardness gathered at the edges of her eyes, and she faced Roslyn with a frank stare. “You were not my first choice, Herald,” she said, her expression firm, “but you are the _best_ choice. Let yourself enjoy this while you can.”

She left without another word.

Roslyn watched her go with a frown. “I keep thinking I understand her and then she says something like that.”

Cassandra laughed, walking around the table. “Don’t let Leliana fool you. She’s fond of you. We all are—for some reason,” she added dryly.

Roslyn tried to her return her smile. “You really think I can do this?”

“I have underestimated you before,” she murmured, her expression softening. “I will not do so again.”

“This is all your fault, you know,” Roslyn muttered. “If you hadn’t been such a bitch to me that first day, I never would have worked so hard to prove you wrong.”

“And here I thought you treated everyone with the same level of focused contempt. What a happy surprise.”

Roslyn rolled her eyes and reached into her pocket for the handkerchief she’d been holding onto since Haven. “Here. I keep meaning to give it to you, but…” She ran the pads of her fingers over the embroidery. “I’m very glad you didn’t die that day, you know.”

When Cassandra spoke, her voice was soft and tight with emotion. “As am I.” She took a deep breath and folded her hands around Roslyn’s. “I know you do not believe that Andraste chose you, but I hope you believe that there is something at work here that is bigger than you, bigger than all of us. We must have faith that we are not alone in our struggle.”

“I’ll keep trying,” she murmured, clearing her throat as her voice caught. “Thank you, Cassandra.”

Cassandra took her hands away and started for the door.

“Hold on,” Roslyn said with a small smile, truly looking at the embroidery for the first time. “These aren’t _flowers_ , are they?”

The embarrassed cough Cassandra gave was enough to banish some of the anxiety in her chest.

“Did you lend me a _monogrammed lady’s favor_ in the middle of a battle?”

“It is not a lady’s favor,” Cassandra snapped, already making for the doorway.

“Tell that to the knights who don’t have one. My stars, this is very lovely, Cassandra. My heart is all aflutter with the desire to prove myself worthy of such a fine gift. Although I might have a hard time finding a tournament to joust in with this new responsibility you’ve forced on me.”

“You are horrible.”

Roslyn followed after her with a wide grin, tucking the handkerchief back into her pocket.

 

~  ✧ ~

 

It only took Josephine the better part of one day to organize the ceremony. Roslyn suspected she’d been coordinating some of the rougher details for a while, although she wouldn’t put it past the ambassador to be able to organize the whole affair in twenty-four hours. She was starting to suspect Josephine was secretly a blood mage with her ability to bend people to her will so quickly.

The day was sunny, unnaturally so, and Roslyn found herself searching for a stray cloud—as if one imperfection in the clear sky might ease the nerves currently making her want to throw up. She hadn’t eaten that morning, figuring it might not make a good impression on the crowd if she vomited all over them before she could even start her speech. The Inquisition had collectively decided to halt all work for a time, so that everyone not integral to the security of Skyhold could watch. They milled about outside her new rooms, their eager voices drifting up over the front entrance to curl through the slightly ajar glass doors which opened out onto a balcony overlooking the inner courtyard.

Roslyn had tried to refuse the suite, had practically begged Josephine to let her keep the small room in the front guard tower she’d been sleeping in since their arrival, to no avail. If she was to take on the mantle of Inquisitor, she must start acting like it, apparently. Which meant she needed rooms to fit her station.

It would be one thing to accept the large, scenic bedroom with its own second floor study and bleeding wine cellar, but the addition of the private staircase and the receiving room directly adjacent to the center pedestal of the main hall was absurd. No one needed this much space. She wasn’t planning on entertaining the entire fucking Orlesian court.

She avoided looking at the large four-poster bed with rich linens which she had spent most of last night tossing and turning in. The bedding was too soft, the mattress too comfortable. It was like sleeping on a damn cloud. Already the small amount of furniture set up in the room was more than she’d ever had—a writing desk, a table, a divan, and a separate washroom with a claw-foot tub she could practically swim in. Josephine had assured her that ‘the rest’ was coming, though she would not explain at Roslyn’s rather urgent question just what she meant.

It was all too much. Twenty people could have slept in the room and not bothered one another for space.

A smattering of applause sounded from the courtyard below. She glanced out the windows, not going close enough to be seen by any who were craning their necks to get a look at her, but enough so that she could see the edge of the crowd.

Josephine had gleefully told her the headcount they were expecting was close to four thousand souls. With everyone they’d lost at Haven, she couldn’t understand how they had even half that number.

She took a deep breath and walked back to the desk, bare except for a simple jacket draped over its surface, a pair of gloves, and a small, white amulet necklace. The jacket was the same she’d worn to address the clerics in Val Royeaux—red velveteen lined with gold thread. It was flashy and obnoxious, but the alternative was wearing a simple cotton shirt or her worn leather coat. As much as it might tempt her to walk out in field clothes, she didn’t want Josephine to have a heart attack. Or kill her, as either reaction was equally likely. The gloves were for the ceremony, another bit of finery that made her skin crawl.

She swallowed her discomfort and picked up the amulet, sliding the simple steel chain around her neck. Harritt had been confused by her request to fashion a pendant backing for the crystal, mumbling something about not being a jeweler, before coming back with a finely crafted, if simple, necklace. She didn’t know why she wanted to keep it on her person. Perhaps she didn’t like the idea of letting the stone sit in a chest somewhere abandoned and forgotten. Perhaps it reminded her what might happen, should she fail.

_Morbid_ , she thought with a frown.

Roslyn shook out her hands and walked back and forth in front of the desk, trying to calm the bundle of nerves working its way up her throat. She would be fine. She just had to say something vaguely brave to save face, and she could just…

Go about her duties as Inquisitor.

“Fucking mad,” she whispered frantically, undoing her messy braid and trying to comb out her hair with her fingers. She turned to the full-length mirror next to the wardrobe currently holding only her leather jacket and a few spare shirts. She paused as she took in her expression—that of someone who looked like they were about to walk out to the executioner’s block.

Fighting templars and crazy magisters and, fuck, even _dragons_ —that she could do. Throw her into something where she had little chance of success and she might just be stubborn enough to survive despite the odds. 

Playing politician at the head of a religious crusade was insanity. No one in their right mind would think she could handle this.

The council hadn’t thought this through. What legitimacy the Inquisition had gained over the past few months would be lost the second word spread that they’d been foolish enough to pick a young, temperamental, elf-blooded _mage_ as their leader. 

A knock on the door to her private stair made her jump.

“Herald, are you decent?”

Roslyn took one look at her reflection, at the disheveled state of her hair. “Ah—yes, Leliana. Come in.” She tried to smooth her appearance as much as she could before she turned to greet the woman. “Checking to see if I’d run away yet?”

Leliana smiled thinly as she entered, her eyes assessing. “I thought I would warn you that we were about to start. If you are ready.” She had flipped back her hood for the day, but wore her customary violet coat with the chainmail shirt underneath. The Inquisition’s sigil lay on her chest in black embroidery. She looked everything a spymaster should—mysterious, deadly, and prepared for anything.

Roslyn realized with a lurch that she was now _her_ spymaster.

Her heart slammed into action—stirring the wolf where it had been restlessly shuffling in the back of her mind. The soft brush of its curiosity wasn’t enough to calm the nerves now exploding in her stomach.

“I—I’m ready whenever you are, I suppose.”

Leliana frowned, not missing the slight quiver in her voice. “Sit down.”

Roslyn blinked. “Why?”

Her eyes crinkled with a hint of amusement as she laid down the bag she’d been carrying on the bed. “Because it looks as if birds have attempted to nest in your hair and I don’t want to watch Josephine fidget with annoyance the entire ceremony.”

Roslyn didn’t move. Was she offering to help her…with her hair?

“I’m not going to slit your throat, Herald,” Leliana said with an almost playful smile. “You wouldn’t have seen me coming had that been my intention.”

Roslyn snorted in surprise. “Because you’re not the sort to look your target in the eye while you kill them?”

“Only on special occasions,” she mused, frowning down at Roslyn’s desk. “Don’t you have a comb?”

“Ah—maybe in my pack?”

Leliana gave her a sympathetic look as she pulled out a beat-up comb with half its teeth missing. “Josephine is going to work you ragged. I can’t say I envy the schedule she’s planned for you.” Her voice had taken on a playful quality, a tone Roslyn had never heard before. 

She gestured to the chair again, and Roslyn reluctantly sat.

“There’s a schedule?” she asked, wincing as Leliana worked through the knots in her hair with an efficient hand.

“Oh, of course. Etiquette and fashion, as well as a comprehensive background on Orlesian, Ferelden, and Marcher politics—though I think she might relax her curriculum where your homeland is concerned.”

“You’re joking.”

Leliana laughed, an uncharacteristically warm sound that banished some of the severity from her face. “I wish I was. Truthfully, I might have suggested some of the topics myself. You are a charismatic woman, but utterly unschooled in the art of concealing your emotions.”

“Lovely,” Roslyn murmured.

“You should not be nervous about the ceremony,” Leliana said. “You could walk out in rags and shout insults at them for an hour and they would still love you.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“You are their hero. You have won their hearts. That is something to be celebrated, not feared. The real test will come after.” She set down the comb and began to expertly twist Roslyn’s hair around her fingers. “You are right that you will face opposition in the courts—perhaps even in the populace. We live in a time of prejudice and judgement, and there are many who would monopolize on such base fears. You will become the target for every backward noble and aspiring despot who believe that none but a highborn human should have power.” Her voice tightened as she continued, “I am sorry to say that the Chantry has encouraged such ideas. But that does not mean that we cannot change things.” She draped Roslyn’s neat, elegant braid over her shoulder and stepped back to survey her work.

Roslyn stared at her in the mirror. “What makes you think I would want to change things?”

“You were part of a mage rebellion, and you ask me why I might expect you to want change?”

“I was part of a cause already started,” Roslyn said slowly. “It’s rather different to work for someone else’s vision for change than to direct that change myself.”

“It is.” Leliana tilted her head, a determined light coming into her eyes. “When you stood up for that elf who was being abused by his overseer, did you do it because you thought other people would join you?”

Roslyn clenched her jaw and rose from the chair. She had wondered when someone was going to bring that up. “That’s… I’m not going to sit by and watch when something like that happens in front of me.”

“Just as you would not sit back and wait for news of the Rebellion’s enslavement at the hands of a Tevinter magister.” Her brow arched. “One day you are going to realize that you are not as much a victim of circumstance as you paint yourself, Roslyn.” Leliana looked out the glass doors, as if giving her time to digest.

Roslyn said nothing, unable to voice the urge that perhaps, her spymaster had strayed too close to the truth.

“You have power,” Leliana murmured, her voice soft and urgent. “And like it or not, your actions led you here. You can use that power for good or ill, or not at all—that is your choice. But you have a friend in me should you decide to become an agent of the change you so shamefully want.”

“What’s in the bag?” Roslyn asked after a tense silence, deciding that whatever she had to say on the subject could wait until after she got through the ceremony.

Leliana considered her, before retrieving the bag and laying it out on the desk next to the red jacket. “I thought you might want another option for the ceremony.”

Roslyn prepared herself to react diplomatically to whatever frilled monstrosity Leliana revealed. But it was just another coat. 

It was made of finely-worked leather and dyed a deep navy. The collar was lined with soft samite one shade lighter than the rest, stitched with a shimmering embroidery she recognized as silverthread, which Vivienne favored in her corsets. The same thread ran down the front of the coat, circling polished silver buttons.

But the thing that drew her eye was the delicate pattern edging the front and tip of the collar—a four-petaled white flower with a blood orange center. It was subtle, and she had to look closely to see the detail that went into every stalk and petal, but she recognized it immediately.

“Andraste’s Grace,” she murmured, looking up at Leliana with surprise.

Leliana was good at her job, but even she couldn’t have known. Roslyn had never told anyone about her fascination with the flower.

Leliana watched her carefully, a hint of confusion in her eyes. “You recognize it?”

“Of course,” she said quickly. “They grew in the chantry garden at the Trevelyans’ home when I was a child.”

Leliana’s eyes went wide and she opened her mouth to speak, but seemed to think better of it.

“There’s no flaming eye on it,” Roslyn added quietly. “Are you and Cassandra the only ones who get to wear it?”

Leliana gave a short, tinkling laugh. “Cassandra told me you would refuse it outright if I tried to put the Inquisition’s symbol on it.”

Roslyn tried not to smile as she muttered, “That woman seems to think I am very obstinate.”

“I wonder what would give her that impression.”

Roslyn shrugged. “Perhaps something simple on the back.”

Leliana’s expression was practically glowing as she nodded. “I think we can make a small adjustment.”

They stood in silence. Leliana looked deep in thought as she took a step back and inclined her head. “It is, of course, your decision what to wear. I will leave now, I think, as the ceremony should begin soon. Cassandra will make the formal introduction, and I will be the one to hand you a sword.”

Roslyn arched an eyebrow.

“Josie insisted on the dramatics,” Leliana said with a small smile. “The Right and Left Hand of the Divine handing off the Inquisition to you, as it were.”

“Right,” Roslyn breathed with a weak smile. “Thank you.”

She hoped Leliana would understand what she meant, though she was having a hard time of it herself. Her nerves had solidified and shifted into something new, something forged. She was still nervous, but it was almost as if she were acting apart from herself. Like the part of her who was terrified of walking out in front of four thousand people, of accepting a role that would grant her unprecedented power, had stepped aside to allow her to simply…breathe.

“Of course.” Leliana held her gaze, determination, something like a challenge in her light blue eyes, and intoned, “Inquisitor.”

Electricity shot through Roslyn’s spine. Unease and anxiety, yes, but _certainty_ coursed through her as Leliana left. It wasn’t some divine intervention from an absent god which gave the title meaning, but trust from people she had come to admire and respect. Trust that she would lead them to the best of her ability, that she would protect them.

The amulet around her neck grew heavy as she took the coat Leliana had given her and pulled it on over her shirt. It fit remarkably well—she made a mental note to find who Leliana’s tailor was and give them her personal thanks. She flipped her braid over her shoulder, fingering the end before she straightened her collar.

Roslyn turned to survey herself in the mirror one more time. She smiled absently when she realized the cuffs of her sleeves were made to allow her to roll them up without permanently marking the leather.

Her face was still tense, but she didn’t look quite as scared as she had a few minutes ago.

_Ready?_ she asked as the wolf sniffed her hair and huffed against her neck. With one last look over herself in the mirror, she turned and left for the great hall. The keep was eerily quiet as the noise from outside the doors faded to an anticipatory hush. Scaffolding and tarps had been pushed to the sides of the hall, as if Josephine had wanted to present a dignified facade. The center aisle had been swept clean of dirt and leaves. The back windows had been uncovered to let some light into the room. The glass was still broken, the design nearly unrecognizable, but the small amount of color shining onto the fine stone floors made it look almost grand.

She was glad she’d left the coat unbuttoned as the closer she got to the large wooden doors, the more her chest constricted. _Easy. Easy._ She kept her pace slow, giving herself a few more vital moments of preparation. _No sense in rushing. They’re all waiting for you._

Leliana and Cassandra waited inside the doors, waiting for her.

The spymaster eyed the open coat with a small, self-satisfied smile, while Cassandra practically beamed at her. “Good choice,” she said, stepping forward to grasp Roslyn by the shoulders. “You have no reason to be scared, Roslyn.”

“I already had one stirring pep talk, Cassandra,” Roslyn said with a small grin to Leliana. “I think I’ll be all right.”

“Of course.” Cassandra took a deep breath and stepped back to the doors. “You look…ready. Are you ready?”

Roslyn nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She caught a glimpse of the sword Leliana carried—gleaming silver steel with a pommel which flashed in the flickering torchlight.

The doors opened to the brilliant morning sun, and she followed Cassandra out to the landing. The scattered murmurs in the courtyard below died as soon as they caught sight of the Seeker, the flaming eye emblazoned onto her chest in black and white. Two pendants flapped in the soft breeze on either side of the small stone platform, both standards of the Inquisition.

Roslyn stopped a few feet behind Cassandra, unable to forget the other occasion on which she had stood behind her, addressing a crowd of hopeful thousands. Her spine straightened as she remembered the fear that had nearly caused her to run. She had been little more than a caged animal then, forced into allying with people whom she thought wanted nothing more than to raise her up as a scapegoat. 

Strange, how so much could change in less than a year.

The entire courtyard was packed. People were clustered on every landing and staircase, perched on any free space they could find. Children, refugees, soldiers—all mingling with mages and templars, elves, and even a few dwarves. On every parapet and battlement, they looked down or up at her with hopeful, shining determination. She recognized some of the faces, but the sheer volume of them made that small, hateful fear of attention resurge in her stomach. She clenched her jaw, keeping her shoulders back, and forced herself to hold their gaze.

A small part of her wanted to search the crowd for Solas, but she forced it down. She didn’t need to focus on someone else to get through this. She would be stronger this time.

“You know why we have gathered here today,” Cassandra shouted into the silence. “The Inquisition demands a leader. It is the will of the council to hand this responsibility to the woman you see before you. She has given herself to this cause, just as all of you have given yourselves. She has proven her steel with blood and effort, will and faith. You know her as the Herald of Andraste— _your_ Herald.”

A few cheers went up in the back. Roslyn grinned at the sight of Krem and Rocky with their hands raised, whooping next to Iron Bull where he leaned against the large stable. The crowd rippled as the cry spread across the courtyard. Adrenaline shot through her spine at the sudden swell in energy and a dizzy kind of relief settled into the back of her mind. A few people weren’t opposed to the idea, at least.

Her heart beat wildly in her throat as she straightened. Cassandra looked back at her with shining eyes, and stepped to the side to take her place at the edge of the platform.

The noise echoed around her, and the shouts gave way to hushed whispers, which faded to a sharp, poignant silence as they waited.

Roslyn swallowed the lump in her throat, praying to Andraste that her voice wouldn’t crack, and called out, “Ten months ago you stood in Haven and gave yourselves to a noble ideal. To restoring order. To stopping the madness unleashed on the world by an unknown foe. You pledged yourselves to the task of closing the Breach and finding the monster who murdered the Divine. To seek justice on her behalf.” She pointed her hand to the clear, piercing blue sky, south toward the remnants of Haven. “The Breach is closed. _Your_ efforts and _your_ fortitude saw that chaos undone.”

She let her hand fall to her side, taking a breath. “We now face an enemy none of us could have prepared for. The Elder One will not stop at Haven. She will not stop at the Divine. She will not stop until Thedas has broken under her tyrannical vision. We know the price of her victory. We _know_ that she cannot succeed.” 

Leliana’s eyes burned into the back of her head as she raised her voice again.

“That is why all of us—mage and templar, _elf_ , human, dwarf, and qunari—must stand together, or _fall_ alone. We cannot rely on old hatreds to further divide us. We must _unite_. We must _thrive_. What you do here, today, next week, next month, is a testament to the conviction of your hearts and your ability to weather this storm. I am honored to stand amongst you.”

Another roaring cry, another ebb and gradual silence.

“Ten months ago, I stood in front of your chantry and vowed to be your Herald. I was afraid.” Her eyes traveled over the crowd, marveling at the energy thrumming in the air. It was a palpable force, as if the shining dome over Skyhold had come alive and dropped to surround them. “I am not anymore.” 

She paused, surprised to find a sliver of truth in her words. “It is with great humility and honor, and with full knowledge of the responsibility it entails, that I accept this role as your Inquisitor.”

The cheer that greeted her this time shook the very foundations of Skyhold.

She turned to Leliana, adrenaline pulsing in every limb. She felt alive, _powerful_. As if the energy had swarmed up to fuel her own aura. She could feel their hearts and their excitement, their anger and determination. It was intoxicating. 

But unlike the power she drew from lyrium, she did not fear it.

The spymaster, _her_ spymaster, dipped her head as she offered her the sword, meeting her gaze with a fiery approval.

Roslyn spared it only a moment’s glance, long enough to see the guard—molded into a dragon’s maw—before she raised it over her head to punctuate the rising cacophony of noise.

The wolf predicted her intention and threaded a lance of green light into the sparks she conjured to wreathe the blade. She stared out at the crowd as they applauded and cheered, some crying, “Herald,” while others took up the new call of “Inquisitor.”

Inquisitor.

_I will see this through,_ she swore, certainty resonating deep in her bones, white light flashing in the back of her mind with that ringing, resonant song, _to whatever end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the lovelies who have commented. You're literally the reason I'm still doing this right now <3


	8. A Voice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Bird Set Free" by Sia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CqNp-KXiAHo&index=8&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&t=0s)

The map of Ferelden and Orlais stretched out before Roslyn as she watched Cullen place his markers. The distance between them seemed vast—an entire country spanned between Lydes and Amaranthine. Far too much space to deal with both problems at once. 

“And we can’t split our forces?”

Cullen tilted his head with a tired sigh. “We could, but honestly, Inquisitor, I don’t want to. If the accounts from Leliana’s scouts are true, then I won’t send our men to be slaughtered. The Venatori might have been crippled by templar abilities in Haven, but with the recruits from the Rebellion…” He met her gaze with a small frown.

Roslyn nodded, knowing what he meant.

Tevinter seemed to have wildly underestimated the damage southern templars could do to their magics. The only reason some fifty knights had survived Haven at all was because they had been surprised. But with the mages the Venatori had conscripted from the Rebellion, the southern templars had lost any advantage they once might have had.

Not accounting for the thousands of corrupted templars in their ranks as well.

“I’d say that our first priority should be Ferelden,” Roslyn said, realizing Cullen was waiting for her opinion. “We haven’t heard from Vivienne’s contacts yet, and I don’t want to step on any toes in Orlais… Isn’t there a Grey Warden fortress near Amaranthine? Can’t they do something to help?”

“Leliana’s been trying to contact them for the past month, but there’s been no reply.” His voice grew sharp with frustration. “One would think an archdemon and an ancient magister wrecking the western border of Ferelden might startle them into action.”

She hummed in agreement, watching the commander as he rubbed the back of his neck. It wasn’t as Cullen was the most pleasant person in the Inquisition, but there was something off about him of late. Like he was fighting the urge to scream at the smallest of inconveniences.

“Until then,” she said, “I’d rather honor the alliance we do have. I don’t particularly want to explain to the king that we let an entire city get sacked when we could have stopped it.”

“I agree. Especially since there seems to be such a large concentration of Venatori with the aggressors. You sent for Barris?”

She looked up then, trying not to think about the fact that members of the Rebellion, people she had worked and fought with for three years, were now working for the Elder One. “I did. He should be here soon. Along with Fiona.”

Tensions between the templars and mages had, so far, run cold, but she couldn’t let the problem stand unsolved for much longer. They needed to reach a true accord to ensure that fighting didn’t break out when their unsteady peace no longer held.

Roslyn nodded to Leliana as she entered the war room, a young man trailing in after. She fought a grin as he came to a stop a few feet from her, eyes downcast in a respectful, if somewhat frightened, way. “You can look at me, Patroclus.”

His grey eyes flashed up and his light brown skin flushed. He fiddled with his shirt, a fine, but rumpled, dark green tunic. “Yes, my lady, of course.” He looked up tucked his black hair behind his ears. “Ah—Ser Barris and the Grand Enchanter will be arriving soon. And you’ve received a message from Master Harper.”

She smiled as she took the folded note. “Thank you.”

“Is there anything else you need of me, my lady?”

“Ah,” she gave Leliana an awkward glance, “I’m not sure.”

“Perhaps Ambassador Montilyet can enlighten the boy,” Leliana said with a small smile, glancing between Roslyn and her steward.

“Yes, right,” she said somewhat awkwardly.

Patroclus seemed just as confused as she was, but inclined his head. “As you wish, my lady.”

Roslyn watched the young man go with an uncomfortable frown. Both of them were still getting used to their positions, it seemed. A descendant of some obscure branch of the Nevarran royal family, Patroclus had been ‘gifted’ to her by one of Cassandra’s distant cousins. Cassandra had fumed at the news, explaining in frustration that she’d never met the boy, had not spoken to the cousin in question in nearly a decade, and that the whole thing “reeked of Nevarran passive aggression,” in her own words. He’d proven himself to be clever and polite, and more than adept at delivering her messages, but she knew that no sixteen-year-old boy would want to follow her around like a carrier pigeon forever.

“We really can’t give him something else to do?” Roslyn asked after he was gone.

“You might not need the assistance now, Inquisitor, but you will someday.” Leliana held her with a firm look. “And it would be impolite to send him away.”

Roslyn bit back her annoyance at the necessity of forcing a young man to deliver missives back and forth all day when she had two perfectly working legs herself, and read Derek’s note. He’d been gone for nearly a month now, searching for signs of rebel mages who had gone to ground as the remaining Circles dissolved in the chaos of the past few months. As far as she knew, he’d set off north over the Waking Sea, traveling the Free Marches to see if any of the Circles who had not joined the Rebellion before the Conclave might be interested in shelter within the Inquisition.

“Well, shit,” she mused as she read, unable to suppress a note of excitement. “He actually pulled it off.”

“Good news?” Cullen asked in a forcibly polite tone. He’d been loathe to allow Derek to leave unsupervised, but hadn’t argued against her when she insisted on finding the mages who had scattered to the winds. They would need all the help they could get, and he couldn’t argue that the Inquisition was the safest place for them now. 

“Three-hundred mages holed up outside Tantervale.” She looked up at him. “Apparently most of them are from Kirkwall.”

“Kirkwall?” Shock broke through his composure. “You’re sure?”

“That’s what the letter says. They left after the Breach, when hostility toward them grew somewhat—violent.”

He breathed out, his face hard. “The city was already starting to tear itself apart again when I left. I’m…glad they got out safe.”

“Are you going to be all right if they join us?” She watched the conflict and guilt flash across his face. “Derek seems to think they’d be amenable.”

“I—,” he started, his voice breaking slightly as he stared down at the war table. “Of course,” he said.

She watched him closely, registering the tightness in his eyes and the slight clench in his jaw. Cullen hadn’t spoken of his time in Kirkwall beyond describing it as chaos incarnate, but she could tell there were still ghosts in his past. Ghosts she wondered if he would be willing to exercise.

“Three-hundred mages is not an insignificant number,” Leliana said slowly. “Master Harper did well.”

“Don’t tell him that,” she said with an attempt at humor, still watching Cullen in concern. 

“Josephine told us to start without her,” Leliana continued. “She is finalizing the plans for your departure for Jader.”

Roslyn tensed at the reminder. Lady Seryl of Jader had graciously offered to house a small summit for some of the lesser lords of Orlais and the Free Marches, as a way to ‘introduce Roslyn to the noble world.’ Josephine had so far been unable to gain any leeway with the more important members of the Orlesian Court, even with Vivienne’s help. Rather than wait until the edict came down from the Empress herself that the Inquisition was not a threat and could be treated with just like any other foreign power, Josephine had personally reached out to a number of acquaintances to convene a small, informal meeting for Roslyn to make connections beyond Ferelden.

Roslyn had forced herself to agree. Addressing the assembly of clerics in Val Royeaux had been stressful enough. She didn’t know how she was going to get through two days of meetings and small talk with a bunch of self-important nobles.

The only bright spot of the whole affair was that Ostwick had declined their invitation. Josephine had been hesitant in giving it, but she thought it might read as strange that they would ignore the Inquisitor’s family. Roslyn had said nothing, but silently she thanked Andraste and the Maker and anyone else who was watching over her that she would not need to cross that bridge just yet. 

She would eventually, she knew. Reports of rifts had come in from all across Thedas. She would need to travel home sometime. Her conscience wouldn’t allow her to ignore the entirety of the Free Marches just to avoid Helena. It might have been selfish, but she was more than happy to postpone that reunion as long as she could. 

The backs of her ears burned as Leliana stared. Roslyn cleared her throat. “The fewer people in this meeting the better, even if Josephine is the only one who knows how to keep her temper when it comes to these things.”

Leliana’s brow lifted.

“You know what I mean.” Roslyn stretched out her neck as her back pulsed with fatigue. She’d slept badly the previous night, and had been fidgeting all day. She’d slept badly most nights, come to think of it. Her bed was too soft. Her rooms too lofty. She’d taken to sleeping on her sofa or sitting and watching the stars when she couldn’t manage to slip into the Fade. “I just want all of us to come out of this with our heads intact.”

“Barris is not the kind of man to cause trouble, Inquisitor,” Cullen said with a frown.

“It’s not Barris I’m worried about,” she muttered.

Leliana considered her. “The Grand Enchanter cannot refuse. She has little choice at this point.”

“I don’t think she will.” Roslyn pinched the bridge of her nose as her head started to pound. _Too little sleep, too many thoughts_. “I don’t know what she’s going to do. I hope she’ll agree.”

Roslyn had only seen Fiona a few times since becoming Inquisitor. The mages had settled into one of the southern guard towers and had largely kept to themselves as they regrouped. Fiona had been organizing her people and smoothing the rivalries between the still disparate fraternities, and Roslyn had been so busy in the past few months that she hadn’t really spoken to her since Redcliffe.

She looked up to find both Cullen and Leliana staring at her with varying degrees of sympathy. “Thank you both for your patronizing looks, but I’m fine.”

Cullen let out a weak laugh and Leliana merely watched her with approval, but it made her feel a little more comfortable.

It took another few minutes for Fiona and Barris to arrive. To Roslyn’s surprise, they entered together, and even seemed to be talking to one another. Maybe she was just getting nervous for no reason.

Then Fiona met her gaze, and Roslyn saw the hard gleam in her eyes. She was ready for a fight.

“Morning,” Roslyn said with as much conviction as she could muster. “Barris, if you would close the door behind you.”

He nodded, eyes sweeping over the room with a small amount of awe. She knew what he was thinking, because she’d thought the same. It was an impressive room now that it was fully repaired, with a curved back wall and high, lovely stained-glass windows. The view over the mountains was spectacular, and with the large, imposing table set in the middle of the room, the impression one get when they entered was one of power and grandeur.

Which was good, because right now she felt silly standing behind the table, unsure of where to hold her arms. She took a deep breath as she watched Fiona step up to the other side of the table.

The Grand Enchanter was not staring around at the room in wonder—rather, she was sizing up the two members of the council, staring down with a cool indifference at the map which Roslyn knew was fake. She was trying to memorize the markers and locations of their troops laid out before her.

It had been her idea to leave a few, nonessential markers out, mostly to designate Cullen’s troops, when Leliana had begun to clear the table for their arrival. Let her see what she was dealing with. It wasn’t that impressive, and she knew it wouldn’t frighten Fiona, but it might make her stop and think about how outnumbered she and the mages were. That she needed allies.

“Thank you both for coming. I know it was rather last minute,” she said as Barris joined Fiona at the table.

“Of course, Lady Herald,” he said with a bow of his head and a dignified tone. “Thank you for the invitation.” 

_He’s too damn respectful_ , she thought with a small smile.

“When the Inquisitor herself summons you,” Fiona said with a mirrored inclination of her head, “one should count it a blessing.”

Roslyn tried not to read too closely into whatever Fiona meant. “I think you both know why you’re here. It’s been three months since we arrived at Skyhold, and in that time, we’ve enjoyed a relatively calm atmosphere between the mages and templars.” Her voice softened as she looked at each of them in turn. “Due in no small part to your leadership, I should add. I’m very grateful to you both.” She fought the urge to shift on her feet. This…formality felt so damn awkward. “When you joined the Inquisition, it was on the condition of helping me close the Breach. Those conditions have been met, and as such, your commitment to the Inquisition is fulfilled.”

“And you are finished with us?” Fiona asked before she could continue.

Roslyn met her gaze, noting with some surprise the forced nature of her anger. “If that’s your choice.”

She let the silence hold, watching carefully as Fiona and Barris’ expressions shifted slightly in confusion, trying to read what they might say.

“I’d like to extend my original invitation to you both once more. The Elder One still poses a threat to us all, and it is clear now that we are woefully outmatched. Your people have a place in this Inquisition, if they want it. If you join us, I would ask that you join fully, for more than expediency or mutual protection. Until such time as our true goal has been met.”

Fiona simply watched her, but Roslyn could tell her mind was whirring through the ramifications of her offer.

Barris blinked, surprised. “The Order has already pledged itself to you, my lady. My words to you that morning in Therinfal Redoubt stand. Our divine imperative is to stop the spread of dangerous magic. The Breach was just the beginning. Thedas needs to see that templars have not forgotten our duty, and so we shall remain. As long as you have need.”

“That is good to hear,” she started, praying that Fiona would not try to antagonize him, but the woman seemed content to watch and wait. “But I want you to understand what your continued pledge would entail. The Order is no longer affiliated with the Chantry, and cannot claim the same imperative. If you ally with the Inquisition, you would need to answer to the Inquisition first. And the Inquisition does not answer to the Chantry.”

She forced herself to hold his gaze, not to look at Fiona.

His expression grew hard as he considered her. “You are a woman of faith, Herald?”

It wasn’t an accusation, but Roslyn still felt the weight behind it. “I am. But I am not a member of the Chantry. I never can be, Barris.”

“There are many who will question the semantics, my lady.”

She smiled. “I know. But it is important that you don’t.” Her eyes fell on Fiona. “Neither of you. We can’t continue to fight each other while the Elder One sits back and watches, gathering up the pieces. If you’re here, you have to set down old grievances.” Her throat grew tight with conflict, but she continued, knowing it was the right thing. The only thing, now. “If you stay, you become the Inquisition. With everything that entails.”

Barris looked down, a slight furrow in his brow. “My men are sworn to you, Herald. That will not change. And we are honor-bound to help you fight this evil that spreads across our world. Whatever the terms.”

A small part of her remembered Envy’s curling taunts— _they will be tools and weapons, soldiers to your will…_

She would not let that happen.

“Well, for a start,” she said slowly, trying hard to banish the memory, “I would make you Knight Commander.”

His eyes flashed up, wide and shocked, as if he’d never even thought of the idea. For the first time she realized how young he must be. He couldn’t be more than a few years older than her, and just as unaccustomed to leadership.

“My lady,” he started, his voice brimming with emotion, “it is an honor you would consider me for such a role, but I have to refuse.”

“Why?”

He blinked and opened his mouth, before closing it again and frowning.

“You led your men in the fight at Haven. I know what you did for our people. And you have proven yourself to be a kind and diplomatic man.”

“Also,” Cullen added with a wry smile, “every one of your men recommended you for the job.”

Barris looked from her to Cullen, as if waiting for them to announce their grand joke. “I—I don’t know what to say.”

“Say thank you and accept the position.” She gave him a small smile when he laughed. “This will not be easy, Barris. There are still groups of your order scattered throughout Thedas, some who didn’t join with the rest when they went to Therinfal Redoubt. I am sure some of them will object to the idea that mages are now free. I would look to you for help in showing them that templars can be more than jailers.”

His expression grew somber once more, but there was no hesitation in his eyes. “I understand. If you would place your trust in me, I will ensure to the best of my ability that every templar’s focus is directed toward the true threat—Coryphea.” His voice hardened into a cutting edge. “We will not accept what was done to our brothers and sisters. The monsters made of our noble knights and officers will not stand.”

Roslyn felt a small knot of tension release in her stomach, though a small part still hated the idea of templars answering to her. It seemed to go against everything she knew was right, but that would need to change. They couldn’t hurt her now, and it was unworthy of her not to let them try to make amends. 

_This is your role now_ , she told herself, turning to Fiona with a firm gaze. _Better get used to it._

“And what of the mages?”

Fiona remained silent for a moment, as if sizing her up. “The Inquisition welcomed us when we had nowhere else to turn,” she started slowly, her hazel-green eyes locked on Roslyn’s. “I have not forgotten the opportunity you gave us after Redcliffe.”

For the first time since leaving Andoral’s Reach, Roslyn saw the ice around Fiona’s expression crack, and a hint of remorse entered her eyes.

“If my people are guaranteed their freedom,” she said with a slow look toward Barris, “we shall stay with the Inquisition.”

Roslyn sagged in relief, feeling like weights had been lifted off her shoulders.

Barris turned to her hesitantly, though she could tell he was trying to keep his expression polite. “We have no intention of going to war with you, Grand Enchanter. You’ll find that those who did are no longer included in our number. The templars will honor the accord that was made before the Breach.”

_This has to be too easy_ , Roslyn thought as she looked between them, trying to see the underlying hostility, the double-meaning. But there was none that she could find. “And the Inquisition will defend that peace,” she said. “We cannot allow conflict to break out again.” She said to Fiona, “Are you sure the College of Magi will agree that the war is ended?”

Fiona nodded slowly. “They might take some convincing, but I will see it done.”

Leliana stepped forward, eyeing the pair of them with a small amount of caution. “It is all well and good to make promises in this room, but there are many who might argue against you. Who might challenge both of your authorities on the subject.”

“Then we should let those who might disagree know that the Inquisition will back them as allies.” Roslyn met the spymaster’s eyes, recognizing the pointed stare. “That _I_ will.”

“It might sway some, but you should be ready to retaliate should a challenge come. Words will only go so far.”

“I know.” Roslyn held her gaze, trying not to feel everyone else staring at her in anticipation. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, but if it does…”

If this really could end the conflict for now, or at least start an end, then she would do whatever she needed to do. Perhaps if she could prove to the world that it was possible for mages and templars to work together, a real solution could be found.

“An end to the Mage-Templar war with the Inquisitor herself guarding the peace,” Fiona mused, hard amusement in her eyes. “How improbable.”

“It was Justinia’s intention for the Conclave to end the war,” Leliana murmured.

_The Maker works in ways we cannot comprehend_ , she could almost hear Cassandra say. She fought a grimace. If the Maker had needed to kill a thousand people just to force them all to the table, she didn’t want to comprehend it.

“Right. Both the mages and the templars will have proxy representation on the council. Leliana will represent the mages’ interests, and Cullen, the templars’. Of course, you are still in control of your people, but in matters that affect the Inquisition, we all need to work together.”

“The templars answer to you, Herald.” Barris met her gaze with a small smile. “As do I. Until the Elder One is defeated, we cannot split our focus.”

“I would agree,” Fiona said, to her complete shock. She turned to Roslyn and met her gaze firmly. “There is not a mage in this fortress who does not understand that we are free and alive because of your direct intervention at Redcliffe.” She seemed to hesitate, then added, “Not anymore.”

Roslyn stared at the woman she had once considered her mentor, her role model—an echo of the same purpose she’d felt when she’d said goodbye to Fiona and left for the Conclave over a year ago filtering through her chest. The part of her which had shattered into a thousand pieces after her dismissal in Val Royeaux seemed to begin pulling itself back together. Piece by piece. Bit by bit.

It would never be the same—but if it meant Roslyn could start to trust her again, she would take it.

“This won’t be easy,” she said, “and I am sure the rest of the world will think us mad, but if we can hold on for a little while, this ridiculous idea of peace might stick.”

Cullen laughed, but quickly hid it under a poorly-executed cough.

“We will draw something up,” she said, giving him a pointed look before turning to Leliana. “Something all of us can sign to make it official.”

“I think that would be wise.” Leliana inclined her head to Fiona and Barris before turning back to her. “Josephine can whip something up in no time. It will not satisfy those who disagree, but it is always better to record such things for future reference. You should know, Inquisitor,” she added casually, “King Alistair will be visiting with the builders he promised in his last correspondence. We should expect them by the end of the week.”

Roslyn tried hard not to notice Fiona’s sudden tension. “The king is coming himself?” She’d been grateful for his offer of men and supplies after they’d arrived at Skyhold. Without the food he’d delivered in those first weeks following the attack on Haven, it might have been a much harder winter.

Leliana nodded. If she noticed the Grand Enchanter’s discomfort, she made no sign of it, though Roslyn thought there was something pointed about her stance. And there was no reason to have waited to deliver this information now, rather than earlier. Did Leliana know, then, who Fiona was to the king? “He wishes to pay his respects to you.”

“Well,” Roslyn cleared her throat, battling both the sheer lunacy of the idea that a _king_ was coming to pay respects to her, “I hope he will understand that Skyhold isn’t exactly fit to receive him in the manner to which he’s accustomed.”

Cullen snorted, entirely oblivious to the tension in the room. “He’s not some Orlesian nobleman who needs to be pampered and bathed in scented oils. He’s Ferelden. He’ll be fine.”

“I’d like everyone to remember that it was not me who insulted your country,” Roslyn murmured, chancing a look at Fiona. Her expression was careful, neutral. To everyone else, she would look disinterested, but Roslyn knew her better. Or—she’d once thought she did.

“He is used to much worse,” Leliana said with a small smile, “do not worry yourself.” 

Roslyn thought back to their last meeting, the tension which had flowed between Leliana and the king…and the shared affection she’d seen when they were about to die in that nightmare future. She’d assumed that Leliana had a past, but she struggled to think how she knew the king of Ferelden so intimately.

“Barris, if you don’t mind,” Roslyn said after Leliana left, trying to fight a smile, “I think the commander might appreciate some of your men to help train recruits.”

Cullen frowned at her. “I was intending to ask, yes, though perhaps after we finalize—”

“Of course,” Barris said immediately, a somewhat incredulous twist to his mouth. “We were wondering when you might. Your troops are enthusiastic, but a little green. With respect, commander.”

Roslyn grinned at Cullen’s sigh.

“They are at that,” he said with a shake of his head. “By your leave, Inquisitor.”

Roslyn waved the both of them off, but Barris stopped before he left the room.

“I want to stress that it is an honor, my lady,” he said with firm, unshaken conviction. “You will not regret your trust in me.”

“I know I won’t, Barris.”

His eyes were alight as he bowed, leaving after Cullen in his soldiered, efficient manner.

It wasn’t until the sound of his boots were nearly down the hall that she realized she’d been left alone with Fiona for the first time since Redcliffe. “He’s…earnest, but he’s a good man.”

“So I have seen.” Fiona was watching her closely, still standing rigidly on the other side of the table. “He also seems to believe he can convince his fellow knights that we have a right to our freedom. I hope he is correct.”

“So do I,” Roslyn murmured with a tight smile. “Thank you, by the way. I know this wasn’t your first choice.”

“No, but it is not my last.”

Silence stretched between them, and Roslyn could practically feel all the unspoken things they needed to say hanging in the air around them like fog.

She was about to make an excuse about needing to return to her rooms, when Fiona said gently, “I owe you an apology, Roslyn.” A pause. “I let my responsibility to the Rebellion cloud my judgement. And I was not kind to you after you risked your life to save us. I was—upset.” Fiona frowned. “I do not know the entirety of what happened before, as…whatever Alexius broke when he meddled with time is now lost to me, but Derek has told me some of it.”

Roslyn breathed through the tightness in her chest. “It’s been confusing for all of us.”

Fiona’s expression shifted into one of hesitation and…to Roslyn’s surprise, fear. “How did you learn of my son?”

She held Fiona’s gaze, brow knitting as she fought the memory of the woman’s body caged in pulsing red lyrium. There was no way she could explain without telling the whole story, and if she began to explain everything…

“You heard the rumors of what happened to me at Redcliffe. Let’s leave it at that.”

Fiona’s jaw clenched. “You will not tell me?”

“I can’t, Fiona,” she whispered, shaking her head once to clear it of the sound of Fiona’s body snapping as her own magic killed her.

Fiona watched the conflict writ plain on her face, and seemed to understand. “Then allow me to guess. For that is a secret I swore to take with me to my grave.”

Roslyn held her gaze, praying that Fiona wouldn’t push. “I won’t tell anyone. I swear your secret is safe if you want me to keep it, but… My advice stands. You should tell him who you are. He won’t thank you for keeping it from him.” She paused, hesitant. “I know I wouldn’t,” she added in a small voice.

Fiona watched her with sad, knowing eyes. “I told only two other people the truth, and they are both dead.” Her voice wavered slightly on the last, and Roslyn thought she caught a flash of deep, deep pain in her eyes. “I did not keep it from you to hurt you.”

Something small and pitiful blossomed in Roslyn’s chest. “I know.”

Fiona smiled. “You make a fine Inquisitor, Roslyn.” 

“I haven’t really done anything yet.”

“You have.” Fiona’s brow lifted. “You chose well in appointing Ser Barris. He is a moderate man, and a kind one. And he is devoted to you.”

Roslyn couldn’t help her frown. “I didn’t choose—”

“If I might offer you a piece of advice,” Fiona interrupted smoothly, “it is not humble for a leader to undercut her accomplishments. It is foolish, and it makes you seem weak. Which we both know you are not.”

Roslyn let out a breathy laugh. “I’ll endeavor to take more credit in the future.”

“You should. It is your role now to assume responsibility for your people. Like it or not, you are the one who will take the blame and the praise. You must own it, or you will find that others will own it for you.”

Roslyn’s brow furrowed at the note of regret in her voice, recalling Fiona’s hard tone as she had promised to bring the College into line. “You didn’t choose to ally with the Venatori,” she murmured, the realization coming at once.

Fiona’s face went tight. “I am their leader, and it is my responsibility to represent their interests. Even if they go against mine.”

Roslyn’s relief in knowing that she hadn’t been wrong about the woman she’d looked up to for so long was startling. “I am glad you’re staying,” she murmured, finding her voice at last. “I find myself a bit overwhelmed. It’s reassuring that I’m not entirely alone.”

Fiona tilted her head, warmth leaking into her tight expression. “I am also glad. I have a feeling that I will see great things come from your Inquisition. And I might add that I am reassured in the Inquisition’s judgement that they chose you as their leader.”

Roslyn smiled reluctantly, feeling light, hopeful.

What was done was done. She couldn’t erase what had happened in the past, nor could she ignore what she’d gone through at Fiona’s anger and rejection.

But it was enough to make a new start, one that Roslyn desperately wanted. 


	9. Love Disfigure Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Song for Zula" by Phosphorescent](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FcdOLKx2XG8&index=9&t=0s&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S)

Roslyn stood on the outer wall of Skyhold, watching the small caravan approach over the bridge. In the surrounding mountains, it was snowing, but inside the protection of Skyhold’s barrier, the snow had turned to rain. She pulled her hood up more tightly, smiling as the king’s party hesitated at the open gates. Most people didn’t know how to react to the strange barrier surrounding Skyhold on a normal day, but it was alarming to see the evidence plain before them.

As the horses slowly began to pull their carts through the gate, she made her way down to the courtyard to greet them.

“Thank you for bringing such fine weather with you, your majesty,” she called over the soft patter of rain as the King of Ferelden slid smoothly off a fine chestnut mare. He wore a simple, thick cloak, hood up, and sturdy boots, not at all what she might expect a king to wear while traveling, but she could tell it was him by the way the rest of the men kept orienting themselves around him.

“Only the best for you,” he tipped his head back to reveal a wide smile on his tanned face, “Inquisitor.” He bowed slightly, and she had to fight the surge of nerves in her stomach.

_A king just bowed to me._ She grinned at the absurdity of the situation, and gestured toward the keep. “Your men can bring everything downstairs, but I’ll have my people unload so you all can warm up. There’ll be ale and food as well, as I’m sure you’re all starving.”

She caught a few appreciative glances, many of them staring in open awe and curiosity.

Alistair turned to dismiss his men with a smile, and followed her up into the great hall. As soon as they were inside, he threw back his hood and let out a long sigh, combing his damp red hair back from his forehead. His scruff was a bit more pronounced than the last time she’d seen him, and there was a hard edge to his eyes even as he grinned down at her. “Are you responsible for that enchantment around the castle?”

She tipped her own hood back, wiping a bit of rain off her face. “I’m afraid that’s a bit outside my areas of expertise. We found it like that.”

“Really?” He shook his head. “You know, I almost thought I’d come here to find you all squatting in a cave. The fact that there was a castle out in the middle of nowhere and no one in Ferelden knew anything about it is rather frustrating. At least Orlais didn’t know about it either. My lords would have had my head served up on a platter with an apple stuck in my mouth.”

“And what a succulent meal you would have made,” she said, grinning as he laughed. “We got lucky.”

“Indeed,” he said with narrowed eyes, “you might just be the second luckiest woman I’ve ever met.”

“Second?”

He nodded, though she caught a flash of haunted sadness in his eyes as he turned to survey the great hall.

“Well, would you like to sit down? Are you hungry?” she asked after a moment, trying to remember the proper protocol for entertaining foreign leaders. Josephine’s voice drifted in and out of her thoughts, mentions of compliments she should pay him and the correct order of pleasantries. She’d elected to let Roslyn handle the introductions and welcome as a kind of test. No doubt she was in her office right now, sitting white-knuckled at her desk as she imagined Roslyn horribly insulting her guest. 

But Alistair turned to her with a wide grin, as if reading her thoughts. “I’m supposed to compliment you on your decorations first.”

“Right, well, since we have none,” she said with a gesture to the barren main hall, mostly bare of scaffolding and rubble, though there were a few errant beams draped with the finest looking canvas they’d been able to find on short notice.

“I’m sure I could send you something. There are so many dusty tapestries in the basement of Redcliffe Castle and the Royal Palace in Denerim—you could cover every wall if you wanted.”

“I don’t mean any offense, your majesty, but I’d rather not have hundreds of dogs staring at me everywhere I turn.”

He laughed, and the few people milling about in the great hall turned to watch them with curious eyes. “Oh, be very glad your Skyhold isn’t quite in Ferelden proper, Inquisitor,” Alistair said congenially. “It’s a capital offense to express a disparaging comment about mabari in my country.”

“My apologies, your majesty. Your dog paintings are very…endearing.”

“Maker, the blasphemy!”

She grinned and began to walk down the center aisle. A small group had gathered at the side of the hall, Varric and Dorian doing their best to look as if they weren’t watching her. Solas, at their side, caught her gaze and gave her a small nod. She narrowed her eyes at the lot of them, not missing the curiosity in Dorian’s face as he watched the king. No doubt he was remembering the last time he’d seen the man, dead on a floor in a world that didn’t exist anymore. Varric’s eyes looked distant, for some reason. _Bunch of gossiping hens, the lot of them._

Roslyn gestured to the door to her quarters. “I hope your journey was smooth. The spring thaw here is rather unpredictable.”

“It was fine, today withstanding, but thank you. I wonder,” he added quickly, following her gaze, “would you mind if Sister Leliana joined us? I have something I need to discuss with both of you and I’d rather not wait.”

Roslyn looked up at him curiously. “Of course, although knowing Leliana, she probably already knows whatever it is you’re going to tell us.”

His eyes darkened. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

She frowned, but waved down one of Leliana’s agents to send for her. She’d guessed with the way Leliana spoke about the king that they were somewhat close, and the bond between them in that dark future in Redcliffe had been obvious, but she hadn’t pressed her spymaster. No matter how much their relationship might have thawed since she became Inquisitor, she wasn’t about to ask about her past.

They exchanged more pleasantries as they retired to the antechamber of her rooms, a fire already crackling in the large hearth against the wall.

“I have it on good authority that you’re a cheese man,” Roslyn said as she shrugged off her coat and gestured to the table. A small spread of bread and hard cheese was laid out, along with some warm mead. All of it was Ferelden—Josephine was nothing if not thorough in her research.

“Careful, Inquisitor,” he teased, “or one might think you have ulterior motives for inviting me to your chambers.”

“If memory serves, your majesty, I think you invited yourself.” She met his gaze with an arched brow. “Not that I’m complaining. I should be grateful the King of Ferelden is so eager to come and visit me all the way out here in my cave in the mountains.”

He smiled at her as she poured them both a glass. “How are you settling in, by the way?”

“To Skyhold? You haven’t seen the holes in the walls yet, but we’re doing all right.”

“I meant to your shiny new role as the most important woman in Southern Thedas.”

Her hand clenched around the pitcher, but she managed to keep a casual smile on her face. She offered him a glass as he popped a slice of cheese into his mouth. “I hadn’t realized. I might need to ask for a higher stipend.”

“Joke if you like, but all I hear about nowadays is the blessed Inquisitor. Thank you for surviving the attack on Haven, by the way. It went a long way toward proving to the Landsmeet that I wasn’t three bottles in when I allied with you. From where I’m sitting, you must be doing something right.”

She took a seat across the table and eyed him curiously. “ _You’re_ semi-normal. And it’s easy to not stumble over myself when I’m just offering you food.”

“Semi-normal,” he laughed. “Well, that’s higher praise than most offer.” His tone turned somber, admiration shining out of his hazel-green eyes. She’d forgotten how alike they were to Fiona’s. “Take it from me, some idiot who never thought he’d be running a tavern so much as a kingdom, if you can survive the first few months, you’re better than most.”

She hummed in response, distracting herself with her mead. It would be nice to believe him.

“I—received an interesting letter last month.”

She arched her brow when he didn’t continue. “Congratulations, your majesty. Correspondence can be very diverting at times.”

He gave her a small smile, but his eyes were intent. “From the Grand Enchanter.”

_Well, shit_ , she thought, setting her glass down slowly.

“You don’t have to play coy, she was,” his brow furrowed, “rather thorough in her account. She told me I had you to thank for her honesty.”

He didn’t seem angry, but she was starting to suspect that he wasn’t just playing king, as many thought. There was a shrewdness to him beneath the bumbling charm, a hardness that didn’t come from idiocy or ignorance. And right now, she didn’t know what he felt about the revelation that he was elf-blooded.

“It’s what I would have wanted,” she said slowly, unable to read the intense expression on his face. “I’m sorry if you felt otherwise.”

“No, not at all,” he said with a sigh, voice growing soft. “That’s part of the reason I came.”

Her chest eased somewhat as she recognized the anxiety in his eyes. “She’ll be glad to have the opportunity to speak with you under less…hostile conditions. She cares for you. I know that much.”

He let out a dark laugh and leaned forward, scratching his chin. “I felt like such an ass when I realized—I mean it’s not like I knew, but…” He shook his head. “My whole life, I thought my mother was just a servant in the palace my father took a shine to.”

Roslyn watched him in absolute understanding. She could imagine how unsettling it must be, to find out his mother was not the woman he’d thought she was. “It’s not your fault.”

He looked up with a wry smile. “I know. But it’s still odd. I guess I should have expected something like this. Nothing else in my life has turned out the way it was supposed to.”

“Oh really? What must that be like?”

His laugh filled the room, and she found herself smiling with him.

“For the record,” he said when he’d recovered, “I am very glad you didn’t turn out to be some stone-faced Chantry nut.”

“Oh, no,” she winked at him, “just your average homicidal apostate. According to some.”

“I’ve met a few homicidal apostates in my time and you are the most pleasant by far. You haven’t threatened to turn me into a toad yet or set my shirt on fire.”

She dropped her voice and leaned in conspiratorially. “Why do you think I lured you to my rooms, your majesty?”

He laughed again, and this time she joined him. They spoke for a time about the Inquisition’s settling in, about how many troops were still stationed in Ferelden and the work that still had to be done to help the Hinterlands and beyond—they would need to start branching out into the east to close the rifts sometime. It was surprisingly easy to talk to the man like a normal person. She’d never met a king before, but she had a feeling he was different than most. And while he seemed to be taking her measure, she didn’t think he was marking down weaknesses or traits to exploit, but sizing up an ally.

After another fifteen minutes of idle conversation, a soft knock came from the door.

“Come in,” Roslyn called, sitting up a little straighter as Leliana entered.

The spymaster eyed the pair of them curiously before she inclined her head toward Alistair. “Your majesty.”

Roslyn watched the tension build between them as his smile grew tight. “You as well, Leliana.”

“You asked for me, Inquisitor?”

“No, actually,” Roslyn nodded toward the king, “he did.”

Leliana’s expression was sharp as her brow lifted. “Did he?”

He got up to pull out a chair for her, but she remained standing.

“It’s about the Wardens,” he said softly, meeting her gaze.

A current of electricity seemed to run through her, and Roslyn could have sworn she saw fear in her eyes.

“Please just sit, Leliana.”

Leliana shot her a hard glance, as if realizing that Roslyn had been watching them closely the whole time. She lowered herself into the chair stiffly.

“Apologies, Inquisitor—I know this seems rather mysterious,” Alistair said, “but I would rather the news I’m about to tell you not spread too far beyond the limits of this room.”

She waited, feeling as if she were intruding on what should have been a private conversation.

He took his seat again, looking between her and Leliana with apprehension. “I’m sure you know that I was, at one time, a Grey Warden,” he finally said to her.

She nodded. Everyone in Thedas knew that the young king had helped the Hero of the Fifth Blight.

“While I left the Wardens to take the throne, I’ve always been…fond of them and I’ve made it a point to keep relations between the crown and the Wardens friendly. You can understand my concern when I found out a few months ago that they had disappeared from Amarathine.”

Roslyn frowned, but before she could speak, Leliana said, “I had guessed as much when my sources went silent.”

“Where did they go?” Roslyn asked.

“I have no idea,” he said darkly. “When I say disappeared, I mean it. No sign in the surrounding area, apart from a few traces along the Storm Coast. Things have been rather tense in the capital lately, and I’ve been unable to look into the matter myself. I’d hoped the Inquisition might have a longer reach.” He frowned. “I—there are things about the Grey Wardens that aren’t common knowledge to the rest of the world, but once I left, I was no longer privy to the—benefits. I don’t know where they are myself, and I have no ties to them save… No ties anymore, I should say.”

“It is nearly impossible to leave the Wardens, Inquisitor,” Leliana said, eyes shadowed in thought.

“Fiona left,” Roslyn said slowly, looking up at the king where he paced. “Before she became Grand Enchanter.”

He froze, meeting her gaze with a sharp realization. “She—” He gave a hard shake of his head, as if to clear it. “Right. Lots to talk about, then, mother and I.” His eyes flashed to Leliana, hesitation marring his unease. “You haven’t heard any news, have you?”

Leliana arched a brow. “We have been rather busy the past few months, your majesty.”

“Right,” he said with a wry smile, “which means you only know most of everything.”

Silence stretched between them. The king’s expression broke, and any pretense at subtlety seemed to vanish from his eyes. He was scared, Roslyn saw with a start. 

“You really haven’t heard from her?” he practically whispered.

Who _she_ was, Roslyn couldn’t guess, but it was clear from the expression on Leliana’s face that she knew exactly who he was talking about.

Leliana straightened and poured herself a glass of mead. If Roslyn didn’t know better, she’d guess the woman was buying herself time. “I have not.”

“Leliana, please—”

“My personal correspondence is not your concern, your—”

“It’s been three years,” Alistair insisted, stepping toward her. “Three _years_. If you know something—”

“I don’t know where she is.” Leliana’s voice was small, and Roslyn was struck by the fear that rang in it. “I don’t know, Alistair, but I would not tell you if I did. Not if she didn’t want me to.”

Again, silence filled the room. _What in Maker’s name did I just see?_ Roslyn tried to keep her breath quiet, as if she might break the moment with any sudden movement.

“My apologies, Inquisitor,” Leliana murmured after a long pause, turning to her with a frown.

“I can leave,” Roslyn offered.

“No, no,” Alistair said softly, sinking back into his chair with a fatigue that seemed to gather like a mantle over his shoulders. He looked as if he had aged decades in the span of a few moments, the depth of emotion in his eyes pulling at something deep inside her chest. “It’s not like it’s a secret. Someone very important to me, Warden Commander Joanna Cousland—left Ferelden three years ago on a personal matter.”

Roslyn fought to keep her expression from showing her interest.

“We exchanged letters, sometimes, but a few months before the explosion at the Conclave, the letters stopped. I’ve been unable to do anything with everything that’s stolen my time since, but…” He shook his head, frustration and anger evident in his expression. “I worry that all of this is connected somehow. That—what’s happening to the Grey Wardens is not just contained to my country.”

Leliana’s face went hard in confirmation. “I lost all contact with Joanna about the same time. I too, was preoccupied. I’d hoped—” She took a deep breath. “I will look into this. If,” she turned to Roslyn with sudden hesitation, “that is all right, Inquisitor.”

“Of course,” she said at once. “Even if it isn’t tied to Coryphea, we should know about it. The Grey Wardens might be the only thing that can stop her, if the dragon with her is truly an archdemon.”

Alistair sighed and leaned forward. “I’ve done my best to reach out to the Orlesian or Free Marches branches, but I can’t be seen favoring them. Even after the Fifth Blight, the Grey Wardens are not well-loved by most of my lords.”

“I have an idea of where to start,” Leliana said purposefully, though Roslyn could see the unease in her eyes. “Whispers have been coming to me of sightings in the Southron Hills. And I might have better luck tracking down the Orlesian Wardens.”

The room lapsed into silence as both Leliana and Alistair stared intently at anywhere but each other. Whatever had happened between them was clearly older and more fraught than the problem with the Grey Wardens.

Roslyn rose to her feet, finishing off her wine in one sip. “I think, for now, that’s about as much as we can do. If you will excuse me, your majesty, I’m off to make sure your supplies aren’t being funneled into the wrong places. You two are welcome to the room if you’d like it.” She turned to Leliana with a small smile. “With you here, this might be the only truly private place in all of Skyhold.”

Leliana frowned up at her, but said nothing, eyes hard.

Alistair cleared his throat. “I’m sure that’s—”

“That both of you have a lot of catching up to do.” Roslyn looked between them once more, gauging the tension still rippling in the air. She didn’t think Leliana would murder a foreign dignitary in her private rooms, but, well, the woman was full of surprises. “I insist. I’ll see you both at dinner.” She bowed to Alistair, who narrowed his eyes at her as he stood and did the same. “A pleasure, as always, your majesty,” she added with a wink.

She left her quarters quickly, trying not to let her mind wonder too freely about what, exactly had happened to make the pair of them so damn tense. And how the Hero of Fifth Blight was involved.

 

~  ✧ ~

 

The next few weeks were a blur of meetings and rules, constant and never-ending lists of names Roslyn needed to memorize or risk offending someone when she sent the wrong letter to the wrong person. Leliana had not been exaggerating when she’d warned her of Josephine’s aggressive schedule of etiquette lessons on the proper handling of nobles and their delicate egos.

She awoke in the morning every day to a short breakfast and a new set of notes scribbled in Josephine’s expressive yet neat handwriting, detailing her itinerary for the day. The ambassador was at her side constantly, chattering away about women or men Roslyn would most likely never meet but whose son or daughter or younger cousin was involved in a scandal with the heir to a family whose supplies or favor they might need if, on the off chance, they ever needed to venture anywhere near Orlais.

She usually spent the mornings and early afternoons with Josephine, getting some time off to meet with Cullen and supervise the growing number of troops housed in the lower levels of the fortress. So many pilgrims had poured in since news spread that she’d been made Inquisitor, it was all they could do to hope everyone found somewhere to sleep.

The more time she spent in Skyhold, the more Roslyn realized just how improbable the place was. Whatever magic protected it seemed to extend into the ground itself. Hot springs in the mountain below radiated heat, warming the fortress even during the cold winter months. A swath of verdant land on the northern side had gone untouched for centuries, and they were in the process of tilling and readying the fields for planting crops. As construction efforts continued, most of their growing army had been allocated to building and expanding the fortress, and they would soon start setting up shifts for those who would work the land.

Training continued. Cullen had insisted on putting his recruits through a schedule almost as rigorous as her own. Everyone who joined the Inquisition, save the children and elderly, were asked to join, a point the mages had tried to argue. But the commander had insisted, and Roslyn had agreed with him. If it helped and it prepared them for what they’d seen at Haven, there was no reason why every single member of the Inquisition shouldn’t be able to defend themselves, magic or no.

After training with Cullen, or, if he was too busy, Krem, Rylen, or Cassandra, she would visit with the soldiers. It helped to keep her mind off the idea that she was their leader. That she was responsible for every one of their lives now. And the more time she spent with them the less they treated her like some walking statue or holy apparition. The suggestion had come from Iron Bull, and she’d joined him and his Chargers more than once in the tavern or the lower mess tents. 

Her evenings were then claimed by Leliana, who would fill in the gaps of Josephine’s tutelage and inform her of the Inquisition’s growing network of spies. Roslyn nearly choked on her wine the first time she’d heard how many spies and agents were working under her, some stationed around Skyhold, but most hidden away in some far-off corner of Thedas. It was disquieting to know that the Inquisition’s power had spread so far already. She knew now why Leliana hadn’t told her before becoming Inquisitor. She’d had no idea of Roslyn’s intentions, and no reason to trust that she would stay even if she intended to. Roslyn also knew that the spymaster was keeping some things hidden—a necessary inconvenience, Leliana had told her, until she became more accustomed to her role and all that was required of her.

Roslyn secretly hoped that she would never need to know the full, bloody details. She had too much new information to absorb anyway. Leliana could keep the network of spies to herself, as far as she was concerned. 

As it was, she found herself falling asleep to troop movements and crop rotations, mixed in with the gossip of the Orlesian court. If she could fall asleep at all. 

It sometimes helped if she just…disappeared for half an hour, or until Josephine or her new steward found her and dragged her back to her responsibilities. It also helped if said disappearance afforded her an opportunity to pester her favorite Tevinter mage.

“You’re not exactly inconspicuous, you know,” Dorian muttered under his breath as she slipped behind him into the stacks of the library one late morning in . “Neither am I, for that matter.”

“Yes, but you’re so flashy that you’ll distract anyone who comes looking for me.”

He grinned at her over the book in his hands. “I will not argue—my looks _are_ that magnificent.”

She slumped into his chair, a leather monstrosity with gold-clawed feet. “Where on earth did you find this?”

“I went through the cellar under the kitchens on our second day here. Marvelous collection of oddities just left there to the whims of time.” He pursed his lips, eyes growing bright and unfocused as he lapsed into thought, like they always did when his mind wandered. “Again I wonder what kind of enchantment you must have broken to find this place so delightfully preserved. The upper levels had some wear and tear, of course, but if Solas’s estimations are correct and the last known owners of this place lived here in the Divine age, there must have been something keeping all those knick-knacks downstairs in good condition. Have you looked? Most of it’s worthless, but there are some hidden gems, so to speak.”

“I didn’t break the enchantment,” she said, slouching farther into the chair. “It just—opened for me.”

“Right.” He shot her a frustrated look. “Because you _asked_ it to. I remember what you said.”

She threw her feet over the chair’s arm, ignoring his frustration. “Distract me. I would like to not think about Comte Chantral of Velun’s ill-fated attempts to court Empress Celene’s favor for five minutes.”

“Why? That sounds _so_ interesting.” He closed his book and smacked her boot. “And will you please not ruin the only thing in this castle that doesn’t offend my sensibilities?”

She slid her feet off the chair, batting her eyelashes up at him. “ _Please_ , Dorian?”

He pursed his lips, finally turning to her with a curious look in his eyes. “Why are you bothering me with this? Surely you have someone else to talk to.”

That brought her up short. She could have gone somewhere else, she supposed. Though her options were rather limited.

Derek was still in the Free Marches. Varric had been conspicuously foul-tempered of late, meeting any attempt at pleasant conversation with either dismissive inattention or feeble excuses. Whatever was bothering him probably had something to do with his revelation about Coryphea, and Roslyn knew well enough that he needed to work out his guilt on his own. Cassandra had been lovely company the past few months, but she was more likely to scold her for shirking her responsibilities than let her hide out in her rooms. And the Chargers were off finishing up a job in the Nahashin Marshes and wouldn’t be back for another month.

The only other person she might seek out was Adaleni. She liked to think that, as pleasant company as the boy was, she still had adults she could talk to.

“Do you want me to leave?” she asked, oddly self-conscious.

Dorian considered her, his expression softening. “I—no, not necessarily. I just didn’t know that one of my duties included entertaining you while you hid from Josephine.”

“I’m not hiding. I’m just,” she pursed her lips, “pausing my schedule for the day.”

“How tiresome the burdens of leadership must be if you’re coming to the terrifying Tevinter mage for company.”

She rolled her eyes. “No one who knows you thinks you’re terrifying.”

“I beg your pardon,” he scoffed. “There are at least three cooks in Minrathous who would rate me just below Maferath on a list of people they would personally stab.” Dorian eyed her fondly as he set down his book and crossed his arms. “What am I supposed to talk about, then?”

“How’s Felix?” she asked with a smile, prodding one of his shiny, buckled legs with the toe of her boot.

“He is fine, thank you for asking” He shooed away her foot. “He should have arrived home about a week ago. I expect a letter from him soon asking me to take care of myself and to remember to drink less wine. I had a bone to pick with you on that front, actually.”

“You’re welcome to as much wine as you like, though I won’t protect you if you get on the cooking staff’s bad side.”

“Please, the wine here is atrocious. I’m in no danger of drowning my sorrows in piss-flavored vinegar any time soon.” He considered her. “Felix seems to have gotten it into his head to play at revolution in the Magisterium.”

Her brow arched. “Good for him.”

“Oh, yes, good for him,” he said with a frown. “It’s a wonderful idea to make himself a target for every backwards militant in Tevinter.”

“The Venatori came from somewhere, Dorian. If Felix thinks he can change things, then you should support him.”

“I _am_ supporting him. I just know that your heroic zeal is the reason he’s being careless about it.” Dorian sighed and waved a hand in dismissal. “That man is too noble for his own good.”

“You could join him, if you like.” Even as she said it, however, she felt her chest tighten. 

Roslyn would miss him, she realized with surprise. She’d only known him for a few months, but the idea of doing any of this without him made her nervous. She liked him, in spite of herself, and the more time she spent as Inquisitor the more she realized just how rare normalcy would become in her life. Dorian was ridiculous, but he never looked at her like some holy figure, no matter his personal opinions about her divinity. He only ever treated her like a person. 

He was also the only one who truly understood what she’d gone through in Redcliffe. The only one who understood what was at stake if they lost. If she failed.

He met her gaze and gave her a small smirk. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.” His voice grew uncharacteristically hard and somber as he continued, “Coryphea was borne from my homeland. I won’t have it said that Tevinter stood by and let the rest of the world fall to the whims of a madwoman.”

Roslyn smiled affectionately. “Careful. You’re starting to sound just as noble as me.”

He laughed. “Oh, no, I think your little speech has solidly placed you years ahead of me. Congratulations on the promotion, by the way.”

Her smile fell. “Thanks.”

“Come now,” he said gently, eyes softening. “It can’t be that bad.”

“It’s not bad, exactly,” she muttered, looking down. “But I still think they were mad for picking me. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. You should see Josephine trying to teach me all these little rules for dealing with the nobility. I think her lips might break from forcing that patient smile of hers.”

“Nobility is easy, dear girl,” he said with a shrug. “You just have to pretend like you’re the most important person in the room, and everyone will follow your lead. It helps that you really _are_ the most important person in any room these days.”

She shot him a hard look.

“If it makes you feel any better,” he murmured, stepping away from the bookshelf and leaning against the arm of the chair, “everyone thinks you’re doing a bang-up job.”

“You don’t need to do that, Dorian.”

“I’m not doing anything, you insufferable woman,” he said affectionately, looking down at her with a curiously genuine smile. “You just need to stop thinking you’re the worst thing to happen to Thedas since Orlais started wearing skirts the size of small towns.”

She snorted. “I’m definitely not as bad as that.”

He looked down, almost self-conscious as he murmured, “Speaking of terrible people, I never thanked you for sparing Alexius.”

She’d officially declared his imprisonment, not execution, the previous week, one of the first official acts she’d made as Inquisitor. She even had some ideas how he might be useful, if Fiona agreed to work with him. “You don’t have to.”

He smiled tightly, his eyes still hard. “Yes, I do. You had no reason to show him mercy, and yet you did. For all that the man—” His voice shook and he frowned. “Most would not have been able to look past that.”

“He was trying to save his son,” she said gently. “And he helped us. I can see how much he meant to you.” Part of her knew it was the right thing, that even if the man had tried to kill her… She couldn’t shake the look in Dorian’s eyes as he’d seen what became of the man he’d admired, of his mentor.

“I know you didn’t do it for me, but I am grateful.” He arched an imperious brow. “And this way you might be able to learn more about that amulet you’re so obsessed with.”

She held his gaze, hyper-aware of the stone tucked under her shirt. “That’s not why I did it.”

“I know.” He studied her, that curious gleam returning to his dark eyes. “Any chance you’ll tell me why you kept it?”

“Besides the fact that it sent me through time?”

“Yes,” he said with a knowing grin. “Besides that. Most people don’t make necklaces out of things that almost kill them. Most sane people don’t, anyway.”

Roslyn wanted to tell him that it didn’t matter and there was nothing to discuss. But the winged woman’s black eyes flashed in her mind and the blood from the severed dragon’s head seemed to wash over her skin. She swallowed back the lump in her throat. Of course she couldn’t tell anyone that she’d seen what might have been a similar stone in a dream eight months ago—they’d think she was mad.

_Solas wouldn’t,_ a voice whispered.

Though, even that wasn’t true. He didn’t believe her about the wolf. There was no reason he would believe her about this.

She had taken great care to avoid him the past few weeks. Whatever they might one day become, it was just easier for now to save herself the trouble of tangled emotions that greeted her whenever she thought about him.

He was her friend. And one day she might be satisfied with only that.

“Maybe,” she finally said. “I think I need to figure it out myself first.”

Dorian’s eyes widened in surprise. “All right. If you like.”

“Well, what else?” she asked briskly. “You must have something you want to talk about. Normally I can barely get you to shut up.”

His indulgent sigh was enough to banish some of her unease. She listened to him talk, again, about the filing system in the library. Apparently Minaeve had proven herself to be rather stubborn about the issue, and Dorian had refocused his efforts on future acquisitions rather than argue with her.

Roslyn let him wander off eventually, thumbing through a translation of some Orlesian novel involving an irate prince and the woman who was trying to win his heart. She knew she should summon her courage to find Josephine for lunch, even if the idea of going over court machinations again made her want to scream.

She sighed as she closed the book, throwing it onto the small table beside Dorian’s chair. Her eyes closed at the small headache pounding in her temples. She frowned, slumping back into the chair. Her fingers played idly with the amulet, thoughts of wings and dark corridors playing through her mind. She’d only been gone an hour, maybe less. The Inquisition could soldier on without her for a while.

It wasn’t until she heard someone's familiar lilt that she realized she’d fallen asleep.

Roslyn opened her eyes to see Solas standing over her. 

“Oh, shit,” she muttered, blinking rapidly and wiping away the trail of drool that had formed at the corner of her mouth. “I mean—hello.”

“Hello,” he said slowly, sounding as if he were fighting a smile. “Dorian asked me to see if you had been swallowed by the stacks. Apparently he was overcome by a sudden urge to examine the basement storerooms.”

“Of course he was,” she grumbled, trying to shake off the film of fatigue still hanging over her sense. “What time is it?”

“An hour past noon.”

“Fuck,” she groaned, pulling her legs off the chair’s arm. Needles pricked her feet and she nearly flew forward into a bookshelf as she stumbled.

Solas caught her flailing arm before she could fall, steadying her as she grimaced.

_Maker’s fucking balls, this is ridiculous._ “Ah, thank you, sorry.”

“There is no need to apologize, Inquisitor.”

Her stomach clenched in immediate disappointment at the title. _Inquisitor. Not Roslyn._

“Right. Well. Thank you. For waking me, that is.” She pulled her arm out of his grip, hating the fact that her face was burning. “I have to go find Josephine for lunch before she sends one of Leliana’s agents after me.”

“The ambassador does not strike me as a woman who would take offense at you missing a lunch date.”

“You’re probably right,” she exhaled in a shaky laugh. Sweet Andraste, she was making an ass of herself. She wasn’t some idiotic child to fly into a fit of giggles every time someone she fancied walked by—or, someone she had _once_ fancied.

_You asked him to stay_ , she reminded herself.

“How are you?” she asked awkwardly, forcing herself to look up at him.

His brow furrowed, eyes rather dark and lovely in the dim, flickering candlelight of the library. “I am well. Thank you for asking.”

“Good.” She smiled— _too bright_ , she realized, and corrected. “I’m glad.”

“And you?” There was something hesitant in his voice. Something forced. “Are you adjusting to the burdens of leadership well?”

She took a breath, excuses and justifications bubbling up her throat—and dying as she met his concerned gaze.

_Oh, for fuck’s sake._

“Yes and no,” she said before she could stop herself. “I’m tired and overwhelmed. But I’ll be fine.” Her emotions were so close to the surface these days, it was a wonder she wasn’t breaking down in front of him again. It was unfair, to put this on him when he was just being kind. “I _am_ fine,” she repeated, more to herself.

“You do not have to be,” he murmured, expression caught somewhere between sympathy and caution. “Leadership taxes the best of us. It is only normal to feel as if you are drowning.”

She wondered at the note of regret in his voice. 

“Good, thing,” she said with a weak smile, “because that’s certainly how it feels. Not all the time, but…”

“Enough to make you seek out shelter in a forgotten corner of the library,” he finished.

She tugged back her hair where it had fallen from her bun as she slept, giving a small laugh. “Yes.”

He relaxed, folding his hands behind his back. “If you are feeling so unsteady, why not share your fears with the ambassador?”

Roslyn fumbled over the words lodged in her throat. “I don’t want to disappoint her.” She smiled and shrugged, trying to lessen the shame at voicing it out loud. “It feels like a weakness to admit I’m floundering. I know it’s not, but… Old habits die hard.”

His expression slipped just enough to catch the conflict in his eyes.

Was he struggling as well?

The thought eased her tension somewhat. If he was having a hard time navigating their interaction—he, who was so often prone to retreating behind his mask and pretending like nothing at all touched him—perhaps she wasn’t as hopeless as she feared.

“The Inquisition chose you for a reason,” he murmured, “trust that they would not abandon you so easily.”

“You’re right, as usual.” She studied him. “And you really are well?”

Solas nodded, and his eyes softened. “With all the confusion of the past few months, it has been somewhat difficult to find my place here, but—I am. Thank you for asking.”

“And you’d tell me if you weren’t?” _If you were regretting the fact that you stayed…_

“You do not have to concern yourself with my well-being, Inquisitor.”

“I sort of do,” she said. “That’s the point of being a leader, isn’t it? To make sure everyone is feeling all right and working well?”

He watched her with a glint of approval in his eyes. “There are many who would disagree with you.”

“Yes, well, they can stuff it.”

He laughed in surprise, looking down as he composed himself again.

She wondered if she would ever get over the swell of affection that bubbled inside her at his laugh. _Absolutely ridiculous._ She stepped around him, trying to give him as wide a berth as she could. “I do need to get back. I don’t want to upset Josephine’s schedule too much.”

“You should know that Adaleni is doing well,” he added, making her stop at the end of the row. “He is progressing quickly through his studies.”

She smiled in relief. “Oh, good. I feel so badly that I haven’t been able to see him as much since—well. You know.”

“He understands. He is quite intelligent for his age.”

“Still,” she sighed, “I miss that little nugget.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “You will not always find yourself so encumbered. Once you settle into your role, you will find opportunities to take time for yourself. And it is good for the boy to socialize with others.”

Roslyn nodded absently, her attention catching again on the confidence in his claim. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard him speaking with any authority on a subject he shouldn’t know that much about, but there was something…unforced about this admission. As if he weren’t simply stating a strongly-held opinion, but speaking from past experience.

Maybe she would ask him what he meant one day.

“Thank you for taking the time to help him, Solas.”

He held her gaze, looking as if he were fighting the urge to say something else, but simply nodded. “It is no burden.”

She looked down, knowing he was thinking of her admission to him and Dorian about the manifestation of her powers. Of why she had not offered to train Adaleni herself. 

“I’ll let you get back to…whatever it was you were doing before Dorian sent you to check up on me.” Going against her better judgement, she murmured, “It was nice to see you.”

Solas merely nodded, his eyes still intent on her face.

The library was quiet as she left, the few people Minaeve let work with her moving about their tasks in efficient silence. Though she couldn’t tell if any progress had been made on the attempt to catalogue the mess of books and papers, it seemed less chaotic than it had even a week ago. There weren’t as many piles on the floor, at least.

With a small shake of her head to dislodge Solas’ concern, his apparent and genuine desire to wish her well, she went off in search of Josephine, already preparing an apology for sleeping through their meeting.


	10. Fall Right Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Heart Attack" by Tune-Yards](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3-7je-jsuC4&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&t=0s&index=10)

The sandy road glittered with sunlight, salt air brushing wisps of hair past Roslyn’s face. Gulls echoed their cries across the rocky coast, sweeping over her head as she and the rest of her small party waited on the hill overlooking the Waking Sea. She found herself searching for a sign of sheer white cliffs and an imposing set of iron-bound walls across the vast blue ocean—the Emerald Cove perched atop the Ostwick coast. 

The sparse brush bled into patchy grass and sand farther along the coast where the winding seaside road ended at a grand, sprawling estate. She tried to focus on the feel of the wind and the warmth of the sun, the smell of the ocean that touched some small part of her heart still, after all these years, and not think about the next two days.

“I’ve heard such marvelous things about La Coquille Dorée,” Vivienne said beside her, tilting her head slightly and pursing her lips, as if she disagreed with the things she’d heard. The sun glinted across her dark, shimmering skin—no doubt enhanced with some kind of powder. “It nearly bankrupted the Lady Seryl’s great grandmother when she built it almost a century ago, but I suppose it was a small price to pay for such luxury.”

Roslyn arched an eyebrow. “It looks like any other castle from here.”

“You should try to summon a bit more enthusiasm for when we arrive, dear.” Roslyn caught the small smile on Vivienne’s lips. “Always begin with a compliment to your host’s residence. It ingratiates you immediately and proves you have manners. They won’t expect it from you either, which will make you seem all the more impressive.”

“Because I’m a mage, or a half-elf?”

Vivienne gave her a pointed look. “Both, of course. Learn the prejudices of your targets and let them eat out of the palm of your hand. Play into them or don’t, but never forget what they think of you.”

Unease settled into her stomach. “I don’t think that will be a problem for me.”

Vivienne watched her with a knowing smile, eyes hinting at something almost sympathetic. “You might be surprised one day.”

Roslyn looked back at the castle, frowning slightly. She found it hard to believe that she could ever _not_ feel like an oddity in the midst of such grandeur.

“I find it rather curious that you asked me on this little outing, Inquisitor,” Vivienne mused, shifting her weight with a perfectly accentuated hip. “I was under the impression that you didn’t enjoy my company.”

Roslyn tried not to smile. “I didn’t think the infamous Madame de Fer would care about whether I liked her or not.”

Vivienne’s answering laugh peeled brightly over the call of the seabirds overhead. “Oh, I don’t dear.” An iron edge bled into her perfectly composed smile. “All I care about is that you understand what I can do for your Inquisition. Leadership isn’t just about speeches and daring feats of martial prowess—it’s knowing your hand and applying your advantages with utmost care and efficiency.”

Roslyn forced her shoulders to relax, turning to her with a calm expression. “Why do _you_ think I asked you to come?”

Vivienne seemed content to wait for an answer rather than provide one of her own.

“You know everyone who’s anyone in Orlais. I remember what you said during your party, and I’m not an idiot. Josephine is sweet, and I am entirely sure that she could handle these talks without me, but as that’s not an option anymore, I need all the help I can get.” She paused, trying to read Vivienne’s blank expression. “Especially since most people see me as nothing more than an elf-blooded apostate. You’re an advisor to the empress, and one of the most powerful people in the empire. It’d be stupid not to ask for your help.”

And she couldn’t say it out loud, but having another mage at her side made her feel a little less like a bull in a china shop. Even if it was Vivienne.

“You continue to surprise me, my dear.” Vivienne tilted her head, but Roslyn couldn’t glean anything from those sparkling eyes. She didn’t sound insulted, at least.

“You must have had a very low opinion of me to continue to be so impressed by my ability to think rationally.”

She hummed in agreement, which almost made Roslyn laugh.

_Such strange bedfellows I find myself with these days._ She didn’t like Vivienne, but there was something refreshingly blunt about her for all her subtlety. That, or she was being played for all she was worth. But in the end, she didn’t much care. There were other things she had to worry about. Vivienne had fallen on her list of opponents, and Roslyn wasn’t in any hurry to place her at the top any time soon.

“Do we know who is attending this little gathering?” Vivienne asked.

“Baroness Natale de Lasouche of Val Firmin, Duke Cyril de Montfort of Wildervale, Lady Velise Thibault of Val Foret, and Margrave Richard Penswallow of Hercinia.”

“Don’t strain yourself, my dear,” Vivienne laughed. “An interesting mix of people.” She pursed her lips in thought. “I can understand why Josephine chose Lady Velise. They are old friends from her time as a bard, and the baroness is one of the wealthiest landowners south of Lake Celestine. Darling Cyril is an interesting choice. He’s—”

“The newest member of the Council of Heralds,” Roslyn finished for her, perhaps a bit too eagerly—she hadn’t memorized this shit for nothing. “And Wildervale recently came into power as Starkhaven fell to infighting.”

Vivienne’s brow lifted. “The margrave is the odd one out. Hercinia is barely more than a port for pirates and cutthroats. The slightly more respectable version of Estwatch.”

“Penswallow is cousin to Duke Antoine of Wycome and brother through marriage to the teryn of Markham.”

“True,” Vivienne mused, “though getting a Marcher to respect family ties is like training a bear to stand upright—highly impressive to those who don’t know any better.”

Roslyn sighed, her right temple starting to pound. The next two days were going to be very long. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Josephine’s choices were limited.”

“Indeed. I wish I had been informed of your intent sooner. I might have called in a few favors.”

“I think we can arrange that in the future. If that’s something you’d be interested in,” she added pointedly. 

Vivienne’s smile bloomed like a flower across her lips. “I would be delighted, Inquisitor.”

_How in Maker’s name did she learn to smile like that?_ Roslyn thought with frustration. It was rather disconcerting.

She was saved the bother of replying when one of their scouts crested the top of the hill, face red from running.

“Lady Josephine bids you come now, your worship.”

Roslyn smiled thinly. “Thank you, Fisher.”

The scout nodded his head, helping the rest of them ready their horses to walk.

“Try not to clench your jaw too tightly, dear,” Vivienne said as she gracefully mounted her horse. “You do your features no service by making them more severe.”

It took Roslyn a moment to release her hand from the reins of her horse as she watched Vivienne trot beautifully down the hill to the road.

A very _long_ two days, indeed.

 

~  ✧ ~

 

La Coquille Dorée, or the Gilded Shell, as Vivienne had told Roslyn, was marvelous. Crafted in periwinkle-veined white marble and glittering, smooth sandstone, the entire building looked like an ornate sandcastle. Mosaics of cloudy glass in every color imaginable greeted them as they entered the foyer, swirling through the floor like swipes of a paintbrush. Large windows and doors were thrown open to the sun and sea air. The grand entrance made Roslyn feel a little as if she were walking through clouds.

She eyed the balconies and window seats, saw no sign of glass in the curved arches, and figured this must be the Lady Seryl’s summer home. Come winter, it would be nearly impossible to avoid the cold winds off the Waking Sea. As it was, the late Drakonis breeze felt wonderful as it swept through the estate. If she’d been alone, Roslyn would have taken off her navy coat. But she’d worn it for a reason. The new Inquisition insignia stitched into the back made it seem important, somehow. Wearing it reminded her of why she was here in the first place.

Vivienne was at her side, the scouts having disappeared to stable and care for their horses and take their things to their rooms.

Roslyn’s chest was a little tight, but she kept reminding herself of what Dorian had told her about nobility paying attention to those who acted like they were more important than everyone else. She had no idea how to do that, of course, but if she kept her shoulders back and her face from scrunching up in discomfort, she might be able to pull it off.

_I’m going to force Josephine to give me mornings off for two weeks when we get back_ , she thought as she studied the decorations along the white walls. Busts of Chantry figures—the norm in every noble home, she was now realizing—adorned the alcoves. There were just as many painted landscapes of the sea, however, that were exquisitely rendered in soft pastels and rough strokes.

A rustle of skirts and a clap of someone’s hands drew her attention away from one of a sun setting over what she assumed was the Waking Sea.

“Oh, Maker bless you, your worship,” an older woman with sleek grey hair called as she swirled up the staircase. “I cannot contain myself—you are here!”

Roslyn forced her expression to remain polite and calm even if part of her was screaming in discomfort at the woman’s excitement. “Lady Seryl, I presume?”

The woman, sparkling brown eyes lined in fine wrinkles, gave out another laugh. It was a high, obnoxious sound. “You flatterer.” Before Roslyn could open her mouth to respond, Lady Seryl had flown up to her, grabbed both of her hands, and planted two kisses on each cheek. “It is an honor to finally meet you, Inquisitor.”

Roslyn forced herself to say, “Likewise, my lady. This is twice now you have offered your residence to the Inquisition. We are indebted to your hospitality.”

“Oh,” the old woman laughed, “Josephine is a treat. I couldn’t say no to her. I was just sorry to have missed you last year before you went on to Val Royeaux. I said to myself, ‘You _must_ allow that darling young woman to visit again, Seryl, or you shall regret it.’ ”

“Still, with such fine property, one wonders how why you aren’t fighting off erstwhile guests at the gates.”

Lady Seryl’s eyes went big and her smile stretched her lined face in two. Roslyn caught a flash of gold where two back molars had been replaced. _Golden teeth? How much money does this woman have?_ “You are exceedingly kind, Inquisitor. And I would like nothing more than to continue housing you and your guests whenever you need it.”

Roslyn inclined her head, conjuring a polite smile. “Then I will need to think of an appropriate payment for such generosity.”

The old woman spluttered, but Roslyn caught the surprise in her eyes as she swept them up and down her body. Vivienne had been right, it seemed.

As if on cue, Vivienne stepped forward and said in a smooth voice, “Seryl, darling, it has been ages since we last spoke. Why, I think it was dear Juliette’s wedding when I saw you last.”

The first enchanter met her gaze over the old woman’s simpering and gave her a small, approving nod.

Well, at least she hadn’t made a mess of things yet.

After a few more pleasantries and exchange of information about mutual friends, Lady Seryl stepped back and clapped her hands together. “Well, my dears, I think introductions are in order, unless you would like to retire for a few moments to freshen up? We are taking afternoon tea in an hour or so, but I am sure I could have the servants scrounge something up for you right away if the road has emptied your stomachs.”

_Maker, yes_ , Roslyn thought in relief. “I think—”

Footsteps sounded on the stairs below, and Roslyn looked around Lady Seryl to see Josephine walking toward them quickly. Her face was pleasant, but so much time spent in the woman’s company over the past month made it rather obvious that her smile was forced.

“My lady, I am so glad you have arrived.” Her eyes flicked to Vivienne in a silent sign that something was wrong. “You must be tired. I think it would be all right if you were to take a few minutes to dust the road off your coats, as it were.”

Roslyn opened her mouth to agree, disliking the rather pointed look Josephine gave her as she stepped up to meet them, but Lady Seryl cut her off. “Oh, of course. You can catch up with your sister later. She says you haven’t seen each other in nearly ten years!”

Roslyn turned to the old woman with a frown, not understanding what she meant. “My sister?”

A high, cold voice arched through the foyer like an arrow, slamming into her chest and freezing her in place. “There you are. I was beginning to think your ambassador was trying to deceive us.”

Her mind wrapped around the familiar voice, the voice that had plagued her nightmares for eighteen years, the voice that had leered down at her from Envy’s twisted face.

A small, slender woman with bronze skin a few shades lighter than her own and dark eyes walked slowly into the foyer. She wore a high color and her neck was covered in flashing rubies. She was smaller than Roslyn remembered, not the towering figure who had loomed over her in her nightmares.

Helena’s thin lips seemed to breathe cold down her spine as she stepped up the staircase, every sharp rap of her heels echoing in the recesses of Roslyn’s frozen mind.

_Rabbit_ , the voice, _her_ voice pierced through the fog. A scream thudded in her chest. Every inch of Roslyn’s body wanted to run, to scramble back, to cower, to get away. The scars on the backs of her ears burned. The echo of hot blood ran down her neck.

It made no sense. She couldn’t be here.

But just as Roslyn’s mind registered the lack of air in her lungs, Helena paused only a few feet from her and gave her a sweet, menacing smile. “How lovely it is to see you after all these years, Roslyn.”

Roslyn couldn’t move.

She felt as if she’d lost the ability to think, let alone speak. Her vision wrapped around Helena as a piercing, shrieking silence filled her mind.

And then a flash of heat—the wolf rose at her panic, rumbled, sent her a wave of strength, kept her knees from buckling.

Feeling returned to her lips, and she heard herself speak in a delay, “Helena—I thought you had turned down my invitation.”

Her voice was halting, stilted, but she was talking. She had to keep talking, keep moving, until she could leave and let the cavern in her gut swallow her whole.

The wolf brushed against her, warmth breaking through her chest, and she breathed.

She nearly missed Helena’s reply.

“I do apologize. I had thought to be unavailable, but…well.” She pursed her lips, a smile in her cold, dark eyes. “I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see you after so long. It is _astounding_ how things can change so drastically when one is looking the other way. From such small beginnings you came and now…”

Anger—she didn’t know if it was hers or the wolf’s—broke through the chill in her mind.

“Indeed.” Roslyn turned abruptly to Lady Seryl, who was watching the pair of them closely. “I think I will retire until tea, my lady. I apologize for not staying.”

The old woman nodded. “I’ll have my steward show you up.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, not trusting herself to speak any louder for fear of screaming.

“You can’t stay for a few minutes?” Helena asked with an incredulous smile. “We’ve been waiting all morning.”

The wolf growled and her left hand pulsed. It was looking for the target of her fear. It was looking for something to tear into.

She still had her riding gloves on, or the foyer would have been bathed in green light.

_Out—you have to get out._

“No, I’m afraid I would be poor company right now.” She forced herself to meet Helena’s gaze. Anger and fear spiked through her mind.

The memory of her face twisted in disgust and terror as the blast of Roslyn’s magic had nearly taken her head off her neck—the wolf paced and snapped its teeth, fur bristling in defiance.

“You’ll have to excuse my rudeness.”

More footsteps. The steward approached from the other side of the room, bowing slightly to Roslyn. “If you’ll follow me, your worship.”

Roslyn met Josephine’s eyes, silently begging the woman to cover for her, to let her leave. _Please, Maker,_ she needed to leave.

The steward gesture toward the staircase to the left and she moved forward—too fast. The man eyed her curiously, but guided her up and into the open hall leading to the guest quarters.

Her heart slammed against her sternum and she struggled to keep from sprinting down to the open balcony and throwing herself into the sea. Anything to get out. She had to get out—

The steward opened a door, gesturing inside.

Roslyn didn’t see the room, walking forward and grabbing the first piece of furniture she saw—the back of a high wooden chair.

“If you need anything—”

“No, thank you,” she snapped, her voice frayed and ragged. “I will be fine.”

“Of course, your worship,” he said, closing the door behind him.

She forced herself to wait one second. Two seconds.

And she let herself break.

She opened her mouth, trying to get more air into her lungs. But they were frozen solid. Something was blocking her throat. She gasped, clenching the chair so tightly her knuckles turned white.

_So good to see you, rabbit—_

The wood snapped in her hands. Magic crackled around her fingers.

_White energy bursting from her like lightning and blasting her back against the wall—_

She was here. _Maker_ , she was here and Roslyn couldn’t—she can’t—

The wolf turned in her mind, bumping her gently with its thoughts—and she lashed out instinctively.

The yelp cracked through her chest. Tears burned down her cheeks. Her vision blurred.

She was going to die.

Helena was going to kill her. That’s why she hadn’t told her she was attending. She’d come to finally repay the damage Roslyn had done to her all those years ago. She was going to kill her and Roslyn couldn’t—

Her fingers shook as she tried to get her coat off, but it had been sealed with iron bands. They tightened around her chest, her throat. Knives dug into the skin behind her ears. 

She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t see. The world was hated white energy and Helena’s shrieking voice thudding into her with every pulse of her heart, her hated, small—

A different voice. Cultured, calm.

“Inquisitor, I am going to guide you to the bed.”

Roslyn barely heard it over her frenzied breathing. Her head was swimming. 

A pressure on her arm. She jerked away and looked around.

Vivienne stood a few feet from her, eyes clear and face set. Her hands were held out in front of her—a warning, a reassurance. “You need to sit down before you pass out, dear.”

She blinked, not understanding why—

Vivienne was in her room. Vivienne was trying to help her.

“Can you understand me?”

Her mind snapped into place. The thudding in her chest slowed, enough to let the wolf’s frantic attempts to reach her break through her panic.

Vivienne took a step forward, watching her carefully, and wrapped one hand around her elbow. “Come now, dear. Sit down. You’re safe.”

Roslyn’s chest still heaved and her vision still blurred, but the wolf slowly filtered into her mind. Warmth wrapped around her hand like an embrace. She blinked against more tears.

“That’s right.” Vivienne pulled her forward gently, taking the pieces of broken wood from her hands and throwing them aside. “Just keep breathing.”

Roslyn swallowed a choked sob as she sat down on the bed, bending forward slightly to brace her hands on her knees.

The Chant swelled up inside her, and she reached for it. For the comfort of silence and darkness. 

_Blessed are the small and meek, for it is they the Maker chose above all others to bear the burdens of the many._

Her eyes closed. The wolf huffed warmth across her cheek.

“Just breathe, darling,” Vivienne murmured, her voice softer than Roslyn had ever heard it before. A hand rubbed small circles onto her back. “You’re safe here.”

Tears fell more quickly down her cheeks now, dripping onto her hands and soaking into the fabric of her pants.

“Let’s take your coat off, and then I’ll get you a warm towel.”

“You don’t—,” Roslyn tried to say, grimacing when her voice broke on a ragged breath.

“Yes, I do. Coat off now, please.”

She let Vivienne shift her arms and unbutton her coat, trying to help her but finding her limbs leaden. Part of her balked at the idea that she was letting Vivienne, of all people, help, but she was still struggling not to pass out. She just couldn’t conjure the energy to care.

“I’m going to get up to fetch some warm water, dear. I’ll be right back.”

A soft hand pressed down on Roslyn’s knee, a small brush of comfort, and then she was walking quietly away to a wash basin at the far side of the room.

Roslyn closed her eyes, arms shaking slightly as her body began to relax. Her shoulders ached and her hands felt like she’d slammed them in a doorway.

The wolf pressed itself into her mind, the faintest idea of fur brushing her cheek. Another wave of warmth washed through her. “Sorry,” she murmured. It huffed back, a little hesitantly.

“Don’t apologize, dear,” Vivienne said from the other side of the room.

Roslyn looked up, realizing she’d spoken out loud. “Vivienne, you don’t need to bother yourself. I’ll be fine.”

“I know you will.” She turned to look at her. The wash basin steamed with a wave of her hand. “But say the word, and I shall leave.”

Roslyn waited for the urge to tell her to leave, but it didn’t come. She wanted to be alone, yes, but…

Vivienne’s expression remained impassive, but understanding shone in her eyes. She walked over slowly, picking up one of the bedside tables and setting beside Roslyn. “By the way, don’t worry about the chair. It clashed dreadfully. Seryl should fire her decorator for choosing dark mahogany for this color palette.”

Roslyn frowned and looked down at her hands. She didn’t remember when she’d taken off her gloves. There were a few cuts along the edges of her palms, but they didn’t hurt. Or she was still numb.

“Have you always had trouble controlling your magic when you get emotional?”

She looked up, expecting to see Vivienne looking down at her with judgement or derision, but there was just calm patience. Settling lightly down next to her, Vivienne held out her hand, dipping one cloth into the steaming water. Waiting.

Roslyn placed her right hand in the woman’s palm.

Dabbing the fine cuts lightly with the damp cloth, Vivienne merely watched her, waiting.

“Yes. Not always, but—” Roslyn exhaled, hating the weak shiver in her voice. “The last time I saw my half-sister was the day my magic surfaced. I just—didn’t realize it would still…”

“I understand, dear. Whether it is an effect of the Fade or some predisposition for chaos, I don’t know, but mages and the manifestation of their power have a way of complicating in one’s psyche. It makes sense that you would have such a reaction.”

Roslyn just stared, unable to believe that Vivienne was offering her some kind of…comfort? Consolation? 

“Especially if that manifestation was brought on by trauma.” Vivienne looked up then, firm in her gaze as she reached for Roslyn’s other hand. “I will not insult you by assuming I understand what happened to you, or what is still happening, but trust that you are not the only mage to struggle with feelings that defy logic.”

“Why are you helping me?”

Vivienne smiled then, a wry glint in her eye as she looked down at Roslyn’s mark. A pulse of healing magic swept over her skin—she tasted honey on her tongue, heard a woman’s soft, deep voice singing in a strange language. “Because you’ve painted me as a monster? Oh, darling, I might disagree with your choice of mentor and find your idealism misplaced at times, but I can see panic in even the best actor’s eyes.”

Roslyn frowned, folding her hands back on her lap when Vivienne was done. “I never should have agreed to this.”

“You are the Inquisitor. You have no choice.” Vivienne stood and carried the bowl to a table near the door. “What you can choose is who you are when you leave this room again.”

“And who is that?” she asked roughly, pushing her hair back from her face and wincing slightly as she brushed the tips of her ears. They still pounded and burned a little.

“The woman who survived an attack from one of the nine magisters to breach the Golden City, who bent the Templar Order and the Mage Rebellion to her will, who addressed thousands of frightened souls searching for a reason to fight and gave herself to them.” She paused, taking in Roslyn’s discomfort and guilt. “The woman you are when you walk through Skyhold and let your people see that you are not afraid.”

None of that mattered now. She couldn’t fight her way out of this.

“Or, you can be the child your sister wants you to be.”

A soft knock at the door broke the stillness in the room.

“Inquisitor,” Josephine called in a gentle voice, “I had hoped to speak with you for a moment.”

Roslyn wiped her face, standing up on shaky legs and looking around.

“There is another wash basin in the _en suite_ , dear,” Vivienne motioned toward a door she hadn’t seen before. Now that she got a look at her room, it was decorated in the same glittering white stone and swirling kaleidoscope pattern of colored glass. An odd assortment of furniture, but it all looked very welcoming.

Roslyn gave Vivienne a grateful look, before calling out in a shaky voice, “Come in, Josephine. I’m just getting ready.”

She turned as the door clicked open, hurrying out of the room before the ambassador could see her tear-streaked cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Josephine, she just…couldn’t let anyone else see her fall apart.

_At this rate, everyone in the Inquisition is going to think I’m a ragged mess._

She heard Vivienne and Josephine exchange pleasantries, filling the few minutes it took for her to splash water over her face and rearrange her hair.

She forced herself to take three deep breaths, letting the wolf move across her consciousness as a reminder that she wasn’t alone. _I’m so sorry._ The wolf merely rumbled in response, a flash of understanding. She could still feel its anger, muted now, but present.

She wasn’t alone. She’d gotten through far worse than Helena. And she _wasn’t_ a child anymore.

Pulling the door open, she walked out into the room with as much composure as she could muster.

“I am so sorry, my lady,” Josephine started before she could speak. “If I had known your sister would be here, I would have informed you immediately. Apparently Seryl didn’t know until two hours ago when her ship arrived without notice.” She frowned, dark eyes tight with guilt. “The whole business is entirely improper.”

Roslyn shook her head. “It’s fine, Josephine. None of this is your fault.”

Josephine’s brow furrowed in concern. “I know you have…history with your half-sister, but if you want to leave, my lady, you have cause.”

She fought the urge to accept right away, knowing Vivienne was watching. “Of course not. You went to all this trouble. If I run away from her now, it will just make her bold.”

“I’ve not heard much about the young Lady Chancellor of Ostwick,” Vivienne mused, settling onto a tan couch and crossing her legs, “but what I have heard is quite troubling.”

Josephine’s face grew tight. “Apparently there has been—unrest since your appointment as Inquisitor. According to the lady chancellor herself, some elves rose up and began attacking the rest of the populace. She’s been talking about it all morning. Apparently she had to make an example of a few unfortunate souls to calm the alienage.”

Silence fell over the room.

The wolf bumped against her mind in a question.

“What do you mean, make an _example_?” Roslyn asked slowly.

“In her own words—all it took was a few hangings and nighttime raids, and the elves relented.”

Roslyn mind was still reeling from her earlier panic, but slowly, inevitably, hard anger slid into her chest. She exhaled, heat brushing up her neck. Her blood rose in her cheeks and she felt the wolf’s fur bristle as it followed her thoughts.

“Oh, Maker, she is more of a fool than I’d heard,” Vivienne said, her hard expression at odds with her tone. “To speak of such things in present company…” Her eyes flashed with anger, the same cold steel Roslyn had admired in Fiona.

Josephine caught Roslyn’s frown of confusion. “Duke Cyril has an elven lover. They are very committed. Rumor is that the man lives with him in his home and is treated like another lord of the manor. And Lady Velise was raised by her elven wet nurse. She was one of the most vocal opponents to Celene’s actions in Halamshiral.”

“And Penswallow owes Hercinia’s current economic wealth to the thriving elven population in his cities. He even has a few on his small council.” Vivienne shook her head. “Idiot girl.”

“Lady Helena does not seem to care,” Josephine said in disgust. “She seems a foolish, vapid woman at best. ”

“And the Court will be thrilled, of course,” Vivienne continued. “No one can miss the obvious insult to you, Inquisitor.”

Roslyn said nothing, knowing exactly what she meant. The elves had rioted because of her appointment? Helena had been forced to act in direct response to Roslyn’s new position? Even if it wasn’t all a lie—Roslyn couldn’t fathom why anyone would be moved to such action because of _her_ —Helena had a ready justification. And it’s not like she held any sympathy for the elves. She’d cracked down on the Ostwick Circle the moment she took power, why not throw more bodies at Roslyn’s feet?

A tremor went through her left hand, and she clenched her fist against the anger surging up her throat.

“We have a few options, my lady,” Josephine started. “Vivienne is right. Orlais will see this as Ostwick insulting the Inquisition, insulting you. We can choose to ignore it for now, as we are not in a position to confront her directly.”

“Why not?” Roslyn asked without thought.

It was one thing to attack her Circle, when she could do nothing but run and hope Helena would lose interest. But she had power now. She wasn’t just responsible for herself anymore, and if she let this stand, what would that say to the elves back in the Inquisition? What would the workers she’d stood up for think if she ignored this?

“There are too many variables in play to strike now.” Understanding shone in Josephine’s expression. “I hesitate to decide on anything until this trip is done.”

“Agreed,” Vivienne said sharply, rising to her feet and smoothing out her pristine robes. “If you will excuse me, dears, I would like to freshen up before we return. I have a feeling we will need to embark on some damage control, and I won’t be wearing my riding clothes to afternoon tea.” She met Roslyn’s gaze with a firm, unyielding stare. “If you’ll excuse me, Inquisitor.”

Roslyn blinked in surprise, but nodded. “Of course. Thank you,” she added before she could stop herself.

Vivienne merely inclined her head, and left the room.

She watched her go with a frown. “I’m sorry about leaving right away, Josephine. I know that’s not how you wanted to present me today.”

Josephine’s brow furrowed as she stepped forward. She pressed a hand to Roslyn’s arm, sympathy shining in her eyes. “This will not stand, Roslyn. You are not alone.”

Roslyn swallowed the instinctual urge to reject the offer of compassion, that feeble voice in the back of her mind shouting that it was weakness—and sighed. “That means more than you know, Josephine. Thank you.”

“I will give you a few minutes,” Josephine drew herself up, determination in the set of her mouth, “and then we shall go to work.”

When Roslyn was once more alone, she waited for the panic to resurface. How many people had lost their lives because of her, again? How many more did she have to add to her count? And the more visible she became, the more she was held up as an example. This is why she hadn’t wanted to take the position of Inquisitor. The world wasn’t ready for someone like her in a position of power.

But here she was. And like it or not, she couldn’t remove her mark or step down.

The wolf paced behind her, a dim, radiating anger leeching into her mind and bristling at the thought of seeing Helena.

She glanced up, catching sight of her coat draped over a divan. The shimmering threads of silver caught the diffused sunlight, and the eye embroidered on the back seemed to shine beyond the navy leather. 

Silver like wings, and molten starlight.

Leliana had told her she had power—that it was hers to use, if she chose to.

Envy’s voice whispered into the back of her mind, taunting her with the fact that she wanted to tear Helena limb from limb right now to spare any more people the pain of her association. The rage pulsed like a drug, but she could use it. If she chose to.

Roslyn stepped forward before her will broke, grabbing the coat and sliding it back on.

Helena wanted to send a message? Fine. Maybe it was time for Roslyn to send one back.


	11. Run Off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["In Your Nature (David Lynch Remix) by Zola Jesus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ye_FW-_QjwE&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&index=11&t=0s)

Afternoon tea began without incident. Roslyn had reemerged from her rooms, knowing she looked more haggard than she had when she left, but there was nothing she could do about that. She wasn’t going to be sleeping while Helena was in the same building anyway. She did her best to meet the rest of the party with grace, noting with interest that most of the guests were only a few years older than she was herself.

Baroness Natale, a striking woman with jet-black hair and sharp cheekbones, cast an intimidating presence. One of the youngest ladies of the Dales, she had gained a reputation for combatting the incursions of bandits in the Gamordian Peaks seeking to enter the Heartlands through Val Firmin. Never married, though she had three daughters, Roslyn found her somewhat refreshing in her lack of desire to make small talk.

Lady Thibault was more in line with her idea of a proper Orlesian noblewoman. A younger daughter of a lesser house, she had worked tirelessly with her husband to promote their family and gain power in the years since the civil war broke out. Charming, friendly, and every bit as cunning as Josephine, Roslyn could see why the ambassador liked her so much. Stunning in rich fabrics of gold and violet that offset the deep copper of her skin, she was everything she’d expected an Orlesian noblewomen to be, without any of the snide judgement.

Duke Cyril was…odd, but likable enough. He was a bit unctuous and simpering for her taste, but he seemed genuinely interested in hearing practically anything she had to say. Short and stout, with already greying brown hair and splotchy pale skin, he laughed easily and smiled even more so. But there was a sly intelligence behind his watery eyes that spoke to the machinations that had secured him a place on the Council of Heralds after the untimely death of his father.

Roslyn found herself watching the margrave almost as much as Helena. While he was handsome in a normal, nondescript way, he seemed to holding himself back from entering into the discussions of politics and alliances. He was only a few years older than her, but seemed far older—cool grey eyes surveying them all with quiet intensity. He didn’t seem cruel, just…detached. As if he were just as loathe to be there as she was.

Helena was every bit as chilling as she’d ever been. Sharp smiles and cutting laughter, ostentatiously inserting herself into every conversation. The only part of her that spoke to any weakness was the heavy layer of paint she wore on her face. Roslyn hadn’t noticed it at first in her panic, but the left side of her face was chalky, and when the light hit her skin just right, ripples of what must be scar tissue showed against her porcelain complexion.

The cosmetics hid, of course, the burn mark Roslyn had left the last time they’d seen each other.

Helena had always been vain, but there was something pathetic about wearing such a heavy layer of paint across her cheek. Too much not to be noticed, it actually drew more attention to what she was trying to hide.

They were nearly an hour into their conversation when Lady Thibault turned to Roslyn with a purposeful air, and Roslyn had to fight the swell of premature discomfort. She’d gotten away with a few short replies, some hedging of the Inquisition’s intentions and concerns. Josephine was the one meant to talk. She was there to listen. And presumably learn something. The fact that Vivienne, with her tinkling laugh and steady voice, was fielding most of the conversation directed toward her, made Roslyn thank Andraste she’d been smart enough to ask her to attend.

“Your worship,” Lady Thibault intoned, resting a gloved hand against the table a few inches from hers, “I would like to offer my personal condolences on the tragedy that struck Haven. What you did for those people was so brave—Josephine has informed me of your heroism and sacrifice. Andraste truly smiles on you, my lady.”

A small cough.

Roslyn forced herself not to look at Helena as she inclined her head. “Thank you, Lady Thibault. Though, I am sure Josephine is exaggerating.”

“I think not, Inquisitor,” Duke Cyril said with a perfectly somber expression. “Word has spread of your fight with the monster. They say you faced down an archdemon single-handedly.”

“It was rather impressive, dear,” Vivienne said with an arched brow.

“Indeed,” Josephine agreed emphatically, smiling deliberately at her, as if to tell her to stop arguing.

“If you say so.” Roslyn smiled, trying to keep her expression aloof and unaffected like Vivienne, with the proper humility reflected in Josephine’s eyes. “To be completely honest, it’s been almost three months and I still have trouble believing it myself.”

“You’re not the only one,” Helena said sweetly, staring directly at Roslyn.

The wolf stirred in frustration as she met her gaze.

Helena’s eyes flashed, but Roslyn couldn’t tell if it was a challenge or if she was getting some sick thrill from making Roslyn sit across from her and play nice. “And an archdemon,” she added, looking around the table with a small, pedantic smile. “We had a Blight only ten years ago. There hasn’t been enough time yet for the beasts to organize. I think perhaps your Inquisition is getting a bit ahead of themselves, don’t you think?”

The table went silent. Panic swirled in her chest, but she was able to ignore it for the time being. _She can’t hurt you here. She’s not that stupid._ The wolf’s low growl rumbled in her chest as she forced herself to arch an eyebrow. “I hadn’t realized you’d joined the Grey Wardens, Helena, to know so much about archdemons. How noble of you.”

The smile froze on Helena’s mouth. “I’m merely making an observation.”

“An ignorant one.”

The silence snapped taut. Helena’s cold brown eyes grew impossibly wide as she conjured a weak smile. “I beg your pardon—”

“You were not there when Haven fell. Do not presume to understand what happened.” Roslyn held her gaze, letting the wolf rise in the back of her mind. Insults to herself, she could accept, but the Inquisition was her responsibility. She would not let anyone, let alone her monstrous half-sister, make petty jokes about them.

Helena’s neck grew bright red, her cheeks saved the blush by the heavy layer of paint.

“Indeed,” Duke Cyril said after a tense moment, “none of us can truly know, of course. These things are beyond mere mortal understanding.”

“I would agree with you, my lord,” Roslyn murmured, keeping her eyes on Helena as she took a small sip of her tea. It had gotten cold in the hour since it was served to her, and tasted sharp and overly floral. “But as it stands, a woman claiming to be one of the original magisters who breached the Golden City has declared war on Thedas, wielding power beyond anything we have seen before. The only thing we can do is to unite against her.”

“That is easier said than done, your worship,” the duke said with a heavy sigh, ignoring the tension still flowing between Roslyn and Helena. “Civil war, rebellion, attacks by those barbaric giants to the north. It is a wonder there are any of the faithful left to flock to your cause.”

“The Inquisition will thrive, my lord,” Josephine said firmly, sitting upright in her chair. “It is just a matter of who thrives with us.”

The man laughed and leaned back in his chair, giving the ambassador an appreciative smile. “You are persistent, I will give you that, dear Lady Montilyet.”

“Josephine is a wolfhound in silk,” Lady Seryl demurred with and indulgent pat of her arm. “You should have seen her last spring at the Summer Palace. When Duchess Olivia—”

“I’m sorry, but I cannot remain silent any longer,” Helena snapped, delicate pale hands gripping the edge of the table. Her eyes were still locked on Roslyn, immune to the scandalized looks from Josephine and Lady Thibault. “Are we really going to sit here indulging this farce?”

 _Andraste’s ass, she can’t help herself at all,_ Roslyn thought, nearly laughing at the realization. How had she maintained control over Ostwick all these years if she couldn’t get through one hour of tea?

“Lady Chancellor,” Lady Seryl said smoothly, seemingly unaffected by the interruption, “I would ask you to maintain your composure. If you cannot, please excuse yourself.”

“I’m sorry, Lady Seryl,” Roslyn murmured, setting down her tea and giving the old woman a regretful smile. “It has been quite a few years since—”

“Don’t apologize for me, _rabbit_ ,” Helena spat, her pretty face scrunching in disgust, “as if you have any authority here.”

The word cracked across the table like a whip, and Roslyn couldn’t help the sharp clatter of porcelain as her cup clattered against her dish. Her ears burned and her heart slammed against her sternum, panic rearing up like a great serpent in the back of her mind, curling around her chest and choking off her air. She forced herself to keep breathing. The wolf bared its teeth and her mark shivered under the table. A small flash of green rippled against the floor, and those nearest her—the margrave and Josephine—tensed.

But Helena seemed entirely oblivious. “I thought it was a joke the first time I heard, you know. A sick, twisted _joke_ , as if the Right and Left Hands of the Divine would choose a halfling rabbit as their champion, but here you sit in such fine company. Acting as if you’re some holy prophet. I should call my guards to remove you before you can disgrace my father’s name any more than you already have.”

Roslyn felt Vivienne’s aura swell and, to her surprise, the margrave reach slowly for the sword at his side.

She paused, focusing on the wolf’s anger, letting it filter out the panic. “Go ahead.”

Helena’s sneer faltered for one second before she leaned back and waved a hand. “You wouldn’t—”

“Call your guards, Helena. If you think I’m such an offensive sight, get rid of me. You’ve been trying to for the past three years with little success, but maybe today you’ll get lucky.”

Silence.

The longer she stared, the more Roslyn felt her anger build. Every nightmare, every whispered jeer and imagined fear, growing and morphing. The wolf rumbled in excitement.

Roslyn arched an eyebrow when she said nothing. “You didn’t seem to have trouble ordering your lackeys to attack innocent people in your city, why stop there? You apparently think your actions above reproach, so go ahead. Call your guards. Or,” she lowered her voice, leaning forward to fold her hands on the table. Her mark was pulsing, sending waves of energy over the other guests. No one else moved, but Helena recoiled slightly from its influence, as if it were poisonous fumes. “If you were a woman of honor, you would challenge me yourself.”

“Practically savage,” she hissed, eyes flashing around the table to find an ally. “Are you seeing this?”

“Do stop whining, girl,” Vivienne said with a cold smile. “I believe your bluff was just called.”

Helena clenched her jaw and turned back to Roslyn. “You think you can speak to me—”

“I’ll speak to you however I like.” Roslyn clenched her hand slightly, another pulse of green washing over the table. “You’re the one who just offended our host and insulted one of her guests. I daresay you’ve insulted quite a few people here today. You think sending your dogs to kill elves and mages makes you powerful?” A thread of pity broke through her anger. “It just makes you pathetic.”

Helena’s jaw clenched and her eyes flashed red with anger. She stood up abruptly, dishes clinking and silverware rattling, and choked, “You will not speak to me, you _knife-eared bitch_.”

Her hand moved to the knife on the table in front of her, as if she didn’t consciously know what she was doing, but Roslyn was ready.

A prism of arcane energy wrapped around her hand and arm, pulling her back from the table a foot. Her mouth opened to scream, but the energy lanced up and caged her throat before she could so much as choke.

The wolf snapped its teeth and paced behind Roslyn as she rose, the mark still pulsing, but under control.

“You come here unannounced,” she started in a low, calm voice, her heart beating now in a steady drum of rage, “insult your host and her guests, and then threaten violence? Are you really that stupid?”

Footsteps sounded behind her, and Lady Seryl turned with a surprising calm to call out, “Fetch the Lady Chancellor’s things, will you? I don’t think she’ll be staying much longer.”

Roslyn moved around the table slowly, conscious of all their eyes on her. “If I let you go, will you promise to behave?”

Helena’s eyes were wide with terror and rage, the beginnings of tears forming at their edges.

“Have it your way.” Roslyn grabbed her elbow and dragged her around the table, saying in a harsh voice, “My sincerest apologies, Lady Seryl, but I need to speak to my sister alone.”

She didn’t look back at the table, at any of the lords and ladies now watching her composure break, as she marched Helena out of the patio and back into the large atrium. A small part of her shrank at the idea that she was touching the woman who’d terrorized her all those years. But the rest realized just how thin and frail Helena’s arm felt in her grip. How easy it would be to snap her in half.

The wolf shook out its fur and settled back onto its haunches, watching, waiting. It wanted to rip into her.

Roslyn knew she should be afraid of the emotion running through her mind, at the desire to let the wolf have this petty monster. But at that moment, she didn’t care. She wasn’t a frightened child anymore.

She released Helena at the entrance of the castle, not bothering to help her when she stumbled. Her magic flew back at once, leaving Helena choking for breath on the floor.

“Get up,” Roslyn muttered.

Helena’s bony shoulders shook as she struggled to her feet, tears tracing the lines of her make-up, giving her a look of someone melting.

“You’re going to kill me, you little monster? You sick little—”

“Of course I’m not going to kill you,” Roslyn snapped, unable to keep her anger from spilling into her voice.

Helena flinched back, nearly falling again.

“You’re not _worth_ me killing you. But I am glad you decided to drag your bony ass here so I could see how truly dismal you’ve become since I was thrown out of your family’s home.”

Roslyn stared at her, wondering how on earth she could have let this sniveling, ignorant, self-important wretch become the monster who had terrorized her dreams for the past fifteen years.

“If I ever hear that you’ve let another elf or mage come to harm in Ostwick, I will personally ensure that you pay every day for the rest of your worthless life. Look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

She stepped forward and Helena flinched back again, but she looked up, eyes red with angry tears. “You are a coward and a fool, and trust me when I say that if you _ever_ threaten me, or my people, again, I will end you.”

She clenched her jaw, trying to curb the anger pulsing up her throat. She wanted to blast Helena back off her feet. She wanted to sear the other side of her face, so she knew just how powerless she was to stop her.

Helena’s eyes darted around her, looking for something to cling to, to hold, as the full weight of Roslyn’s apathy slammed down on her. “You will regret this,” she whispered in a sob, “I swear it.”

“You are nothing,” Roslyn muttered, “and I hope you go back to Ostwick and rot so that I never have to see your twisted face again.”

She held her gaze, letting the last vestiges of that child who had cringed and hidden in shadows burn off with the fury of her anger. The wolf growled and another little shower of sparks burst from her hand.

Before she turned, she forced herself to ask in as calm a voice as she could muster, “Your brother, Arcturus, should be turning twenty-seven this month.”

Helena blinked, but said nothing.

“Send him my regards. I’ve heard good things. These are troubling times, and it should be a great consolation to know that he will succeed you should anything happen to you or your husband.” Roslyn held her gaze as the steward approached with Helena’s guards. “Especially since you have no children of your own.”

Roslyn remained until the guards approached, the steward hovering at the staircase. “Your mistress would like to leave. I think it would be best if she is escorted down to the docks to make preparations to sail back to Ostwick while the rest of you get her things.”

The guards seemed to register the look in her eyes and the tension between them. “Of course, your worship,” one said, opening the door and waiting for Helena to follow him out.

“I wish you a speedy voyage home, Lady Chancellor. May your skies be clear.” Roslyn turned without waiting for a response, walking back into the atrium and down the stairs to the patio.

Every step sent a wave of excited relief into her chest. Part of her was still reeling at the idea that Helena had been here, that she had spoken to her, and somehow gotten out unscathed.

But the rest…

The rest was still pacing with the wolf and lamenting the fact that she couldn’t just end her now and be done with it.

She brushed against the wolf with her mind, slowing once to let her breathing return to normal. _Thank you._

It seemed to understand her hesitation and let its anger ebb slightly. It was still mad, but there was something like recognition in its slow huff, the settling of its shoulders.

_Not alone. Not anymore._

 

~  ✧ ~

 

The next two days passed in a blur. Roslyn met with the nobles over tea and cakes, sat with them at dinner and listened to them gossip and muse. She assumed that Josephine was paying attention to the seemingly random spread of information, because she surely wasn’t. It all sounded so trivial. Discussions of this or that lord’s preferences at court, the matter of land changing hands as marriages were bought and sold, traded like contracts.

Her thoughts were across the sea in Ostwick. She’d never seen the alienage in the capital city. Her arrival at the Circle tower had been swift, carried from one carriage to another, and then thrown into the tower to become the templars’ problem. What she had heard was the usual—tenements stacked one on top of the other, thousands packed into a space no bigger than a square mile, dirty, crowded, sad. Visions screaming elves and heavy, thudding boots, of people ripped from their homes to be made examples of…

All because of a mother Roslyn had never met.

When it finally came time to leave, Roslyn was almost glad they weren’t heading directly back to Skyhold and instead taking some time to visit Val Royeaux to conclude some business for Vivienne and Josephine. She needed to get her head on straight.

She stood a little apart from the rest of her party as they prepared their boat for departure. Having said her goodbyes and, once again, apologies to Lady Seryl, she excused herself from the group as soon as her things had been packed. She still wasn’t used to people handling her things for her. It made her feel useless. Antsy.

The day was clear and the sky was a brilliant blue, no clouds in sight. The dark waves lapped against the shimmering green-streaked cliffs for which Jader was known. Everywhere she looked, open space.

But her eye was drawn east. Helena should have arrived that morning. Once again, the gravity of what had transpired between them hit her.

She’d been so close to killing her. Even now, when Roslyn thought about her, that same prickling rage stirred in her gut. That same certainty that she could, if she wanted to. And she’d wanted so badly to end it then and there.

She hadn’t spoken to Josephine or Vivienne, but she could tell they were giving her space. Vivienne seemed entirely pleased with her performance, but Josephine watched her closely. Not with fear, but something closer to concern.

Roslyn didn’t know if either was preferable.

Tucking her hair behind her ears, she paused as her fingers brushed the fine scars that formed a trail to her jaw. The memory came, but more slowly, as if it had lost some of its edge. A phantom pain.

Footsteps sounded on the cliff behind her, and she turned to see the margrave approach.

Dressed now in more casual clothes, a simple cotton tunic and pants, with his sword strapped to his waist and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “My apologies for disturbing you, my lady,” he called when he was a few feet away, standing next to her on an outcropping that overlooked the small, private harbor of Lady Seryl. “We are shipping off soon and I had hoped to speak with you before I left.”

She arched an eyebrow in surprise. The man had barely said three words to her the last two days, and now he wanted to talk? “Of course, my lord. How can I be of assistance?”

His serious face turned to her, sandy blonde hair tousled in the light breeze that swept over them both, skin tanned to a deep golden brown. “Actually, I rather think I might be able to help you.”

She waited, trying to read those cool grey eyes and coming up short.

“I know I have been quiet these past few days, but to be honest, I have no love for the Game.” His mouth tensed, the first sign she’d ever seen of his displeasure. “I think we have that in common.”

Roslyn couldn’t help but smile wryly. “What makes you think that?”

His eyes narrowed, before his expression relaxed. “I’ve been told I have a gift for reading people.” He paused, holding her gaze with a strange intensity. “Your half-sister does not speak for the rest of the Free Marches, my lady. The rifts you hold the power to close are not the sole burden of the south. This…Elder One’s corruption spreads far wider than you might have realized.”

“I’d guessed as much. Is Hercinia in need of immediate aid?”

“No, not immediately. I think you have other matters to attend to, and I would not presume to ask for your direct intervention.” A pause, and his cold eyes seemed to warm ever so slightly. He did not seem like the kind of man to show his emotions without cause. “But should you decide to look north, Hercinia would welcome you to her shores. As would Estwatch.”

“I am flattered by your offer,” she said, “and I would be glad to count Hercinia as a friend. But I would ask you to send word if your situation does become dire. The rifts are my responsibility, and I will not shirk that if I can help it.”

He studied her, and when he spoke, his voice was soft with respect. “I am very glad you did not suffer from the same vices that twisted your half-siblings. You seem an entirely honorable woman.”

She blinked, taken aback by the man’s candor. “Thank you.”

Silence stretched between them, and she looked away before she could start staring. He was a stiff man, and not exactly charming, but his sincerity put her off guard. She didn’t really know how to react.

“I met your father when I was just a boy,” he murmured. “His death was a great loss to the Marches.”

Roslyn’s chest constricted with a flash of heat, and she looked up to see him watching her closely. She opened her mouth, hesitant to speak. “I—I never really knew him. I was only five when he died.”

Penswallow nodded in sympathy, brow furrowed.

“What was he—that is,” she swallowed as her voice wavered. “When did you meet him?”

“My family was invited to attend a hunting trip sponsored by Lord Connor of Markham, an old friend of the late lord chancellor. It was only a few days, and I won’t pretend like I knew him intimately. I was barely ten, but I remember he helped me shoot my first deer. He was warm, charming, a bit of a personality, if I recall correctly.” He paused, seeing the emotion welling in her eyes. “I think very much like you, actually.”

She looked away as her eyes pricked with tears, overcome by the idea that—that she was anything like the smiling man in her memory. “That is too kind of you, my lord.”

“Not at all, your worship. I merely wanted to convey my condolences, abominably late as they are.”

Roslyn smiled as she took a shaky breath, forcing herself to look at him again. “They are more appreciated than you know.”

He gave her an awkward nod, looking away again as someone called from the docks. “That would be my cue.”

She held out her hand as he turned to leave. “It was my pleasure to meet you, my lord. I hope it is not too long before we see each other again.”

He stared down at her hand, before he took it. His grip was firm, even if his expression was hesitant. “Andraste guide you, Inquisitor.”

“May she guide you as well.”

Roslyn watched him pick his way down the sandy path to the beach, feeling a little buoyant. She took a deep breath, letting the salt air sing in her lungs.


	12. Let Loose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Thunder" by Imagine Dragons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mx2bqTe39mQ&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&index=12&t=0s)

The Summer Bazaar hummed with the layered sounds of vendors and patrons, the soft trill of strings over bells in the distant Gand Cathedral. It smelled of sea air and flowers, and Roslyn couldn’t help but marvel at the difference between now and the last time she’d visited the city. Granted, that probably had more to do with her mental state at the time and less to do with the city itself—but it felt lighter, as if it were buzzing a more pleasant tune. When Cassandra had told her the city was in mourning for the Divine, she hadn’t been able to tell. Now she could see the difference. Brighter flowers and louder shopkeepers, children moving through legs and dashing up alleyways, the harbor entirely full of ships stocked with wares from across Thedas.

As she walked, she caught sight of a dark tent pulled open to the sunlight, a woman draped in shining silver robes with heavy, khol-lined eyes and thick black ropes for hair holding out handfuls of spices that caught Roslyn’s nose even from across the street. A man with gold teeth and a large orange hat boasted proudly of something he called a “hidden wonder of the north,” with blocks of what might have been dark brown clay sitting on ice behind him. A woman in huge, tapestried skirts held out bundles of flowers that looked as if they had been freshly painted, the colors were so vibrant.

It was all a little overwhelming, but in a pleasant way. She’d stopped once to buy a handful of berries from a girl selling them out of a basket, popping them into her mouth as she wandered through the crowded markets. A bladesmith had caught her eye once, a small corner shop packed to the brim with gleaming swords of silverite and steel, and she’d had to forcibly remove herself before she bought anything. Harritt might die of sorrow if she brought home some Orlesian pigsticker.

They’d arrived three days ago from Serault, and Josephine and Vivienne had yet to finish their business in the city. Something about trade deals and a favor for a count—Roslyn hadn’t listened too closely. Her mind was elsewhere, distracted by being in the same place she’d first experienced someone else’s dream in the Fade.

The past two nights had been something of a disappointment, with nothing but her wolf and Duck to entertain her. She didn’t know why, but it was almost harder to pick out disparate dreams in such a crowded place, as if so many people crammed into such a small space had made the Fade blur. But the last dream had come so clearly, she half-expected to fall into one as soon as she closed her eyes.

Perhaps she’d ask Solas about it when she got back.

She tipped the rest of the berries into her mouth, thoughts threatening to stray down paths she’d been training herself not to follow, and wiped her blue-tinted hand on her pants. Wearing simple trousers and a loose cotton shirt, she looked as normal as she could. Without armor and the sign of the Inquisition, she could almost blend into the crowds, as long as she kept her hair tucked over her ears.

It was odd—she’d gotten used to keeping them visible in Skyhold, as if hiding them now was some sort of critique on their choice of her as Inquisitor. And after her seeing Helena again, she loathed the idea of indulging in that fear again, even if it hadn’t gone away.

But to her unease, people knew who she was now, and, in Vivienne’s words, a severe-looking woman with ridiculous red hair and small pointed ears would draw attention. The thought was still needling her hours later. _I don’t look_ that _severe,_ she thought as she watched a crowd of mummers dancing in a side street to fast-plucking instruments.

She picked at her fingerless gloves, another precaution she’d taken to let herself walk freely through the Summer Bazaar. Or more freely, anyway. She still caught curious glances every now and again, but thankfully, no one had made a scene yet. And full anonymity would be impossible anyway, as she was sure one of Leliana’s agents was following her to make sure she didn’t fall off a bridge and drown.

Roslyn slowed as she passed one of the quieter shops, tucked in between a patisserie and what looked like a very busy haberdashery. A large canvas in the shadow of the open window caught her eye, covered in a rather plain, yet lovely, portrait of a woman. She peered in a little closer, and saw little shelves along the walls, full tubes and packets in every pigment imaginable, and brushes.

It was an art shop.

She stood outside, fighting the voice that told her to keep walking and stop thinking about the damn elf.

 _I owe him a brush_ , she thought as she walked in. _It’s fine._ She was being ridiculous. There was no reason why she shouldn’t replace the brush she’d broken. A friend would do that. And she had so much extra money these days that she wasn’t going to spend it on anything else.

One would think that with all the trouble they’d gone to to secure funding for the Inquisition that Josephine would insist on a smaller compensation for her. But apparently the Inquisitor needed to be paid a certain amount for everyone else to be paid their fair wage. Something about propriety and taxes. She wasn’t going to skimp on wages for the poor sods building or fighting just because it made her uncomfortable.

Roslyn stepped in gingerly, looking around and freezing when she saw that there were easily over a hundred different types of paint brushes lining the walls.

“Morning, madam,” a cheery, high voice called from the back of the shop. Tucked behind a tall table was an elderly woman, made-up in chalky white cosmetics and wearing an extravagant coat of shimmering green and blue over her Orlesian-style dress.

“Hello,” Roslyn said, a little awkwardly. “Ah—I’m looking for a brush.”

The woman stared, then broke into a wide smile. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. What kind?”

Roslyn blinked, her mind going blank.

Excitement flashed across the woman’s face, and Roslyn realized instantly that she was about to be taken for all she was worth.

“I mean, ah, I wanted one that was…” She trailed off, trying to remember what the one she’d snapped had looked like. It couldn’t have been too big—she’d broken it with her teeth. “Three or four inches across with a firm handle.”

“Am I correct in thinking that this is a gift?”

“No, no, not a gift,” Roslyn said hastily. “I’m replacing something. For a friend.”

The old woman watched her with a keen eye, stepping out from behind the table and looking her over. “And do you know the type of medium your friend works in?”

Roslyn exhaled, trying to think what she meant beyond what Solas put the paint on. She didn’t know the first thing about art, except that it was nice to look at and probably required a lot of work and patience to do well. It’s not like she’d had time to learn about it anywhere—the only art anyone made in the Circle was drawings on pieces of scratch paper they stole from the storerooms. And those had more often than not been crude drawings of the senior enchanters.

The old woman’s smile widened and she clapped her hands together. “Would it not be easier to show you a collection, madam, and you can choose from there?”

Over the next twenty minutes, the shopkeeper proceeded to show her five different sets of brushes, all of them made of different materials with different lengths and finishes, with distinct edges and grips for different kinds of paint. After the third set, they’d all started to blur together. Roslyn was about to just leave the whole thing and count herself ridiculous for wanting to do this at all, when a cry went up in the square outside the shop.

She turned around in a start, frowning when she saw a commotion of swirling skirts and flapping hands—a group of noble women had been upset by something.

“Ah, that one,” she said distractedly, pointing to the second set of brushes. She’d forgotten how many there were or what paint they were supposed to be used with, but they looked fine and this whole endeavor was stupid anyway.

She craned her neck to look out at the increasing chaos.

“Would you like me to—”

Roslyn fished gold out of her coin purse. “Ten sovereigns, right?” She threw the coins onto the table and grabbed the small bag of brushes, feeling like an idiot as she ran out into the square with it tucked under her arm.

The confusion seemed to be coming from a group convened outside a flower shop. Roslyn frowned as she walked further into the street, catching sight of bright red paint splashed across the front of a few of their voluminous skirts. None of them seemed to be hurt, though a few of them were so upset Roslyn could see tears in their eyes.

A twang and rush of wind was the only warning she got as an arrow hit the pillar behind her—only an inch from her head. She watched the shaft vibrate in shock, a thin slip of red cloth tied to the end.

The wolf rose a barrier as she spun around, heart racing.

Roslyn caught a hand raised and waving, a peak of yellow hair, and then the figure was gone. She took off running before she could think, letting her anger rise. Who the fuck would be so stupid as to attack someone in broad daylight in the middle of Val Royeaux?

She followed as fast as she could, catching flashes of color, red and gold, sometimes a high-pitched laugh, but whoever her attacker was, they were fast. She ground her teeth as the wolf fed her a bit of energy, sidestepping people in the twisting alleyways that led up higher into the city and away from the docks.

If she would have stopped to catch her breath, she might have realized it was a trap. As it was, after a few minutes of pursuit, she watched her assailant hop down from a tall fence and disappear behind a group of barrels into another dark alley.

She pushed herself off the ground with a wave of force, landing and rolling back into a run without pause.

Heart pounding in her ears, she almost didn’t hear the curse from her attacker as they flew down the alley and rounded the corner. Roslyn was only a few yards away from them now, and picking up speed. The woman, she could now see, ducked into another dark corner.

Roslyn was almost on her when she turned and nearly barreled into a group of soldiers huddled close together. All of them turned on her as she skidded to a halt. A few of them even drew their swords. She saw no sign of the woman who’d shot at her.

For a second, they all just stared at each other, and Roslyn had the distinct impression that she’d just stumbled into something she wasn’t supposed to see.

“Insolent girl,” one of them shouted, and she frowned as she recognized the voice.

The group parted to reveal a short man in fine clothes and a feathered hat far too large for his head.

 _The little asshole from Vivienne’s party_ , she thought as her mouth popped open in confusion.

“So you have found me at long last, Herald?” the man continued, puffing out his chest and regarding her with a cold sneer. “This rivalry of ours comes to a head, then! Draw!”

Roslyn watched him draw a very fine, thin blade and brandish it at her. “What?” she managed.

“You’ve found me,” he shouted, looking uncertainly at the soldiers around him. “You wish to kill me before I topple your Inquisition and prove that you are no more than a pretender!”

Roslyn blinked, feeling a little as if she’d lost her mind. “Ah, it seems I have. You’ve been trying to topple the Inquisition, have you? Rather tall order, don’t you think?”

A peel of snorting laughter sounded from behind her and Roslyn looked up to see the woman who’d shot her kneeling on the roof just above her. She glanced down at Roslyn with a quick wink, the tips of her long, pointed ears showing now between her ragged yellow hair.

The marquis seemed just as confused as she was, staring up at the elf with a comical expression of shock.

Quick as lightning, she drew her bow and aimed it directly at him. “Say ‘what.’ ”

“This is not honorable—,” he started, before an arrow flew directly into his throat, cutting off his words with a sick squelch.

The soldiers around him jerked back as he fell to the ground. They stared up at the elf, then looked at Roslyn, and as one launched into an attack.

Or they would have, if Roslyn hadn’t thrown a wave of force at the lot of them. They flew ten feet back into the air, falling into barrels and knocking over crates that let out a smell like rotted fish as they broke.

The elf fell to the ground next to her, and Roslyn stepped back, right hand raising with the start of an arcane prison.

“Oi—,” the elf cried out, hopping backwards and letting her bow slip behind her back. “You wanna not with the magic, yeah?”

“You shot an arrow at me,” Roslyn said with the growing realization that she’d left her sense behind her in that paint shop.

“No, I didn’t,” she said sullenly, scowling. “Not really.”

Roslyn must have looked as confused as she felt, because the elf just grinned and braced her hands against her hips. “You think you’d be sprinting through Val Royeaux if I’d wanted you dead? You saw,” she gestured to the marquis currently bleeding all over the cobblestones, “arrow through the throat, not next to your burning head.”

Light, fast footsteps sounded behind them, and she turned to see Charter and another one of Leliana’s agents sprinting to meet her, daggers and bow drawn.

“Shit, they’re fast,” the elf said with an impressed frown. “Guess you lot really are as scary as everyone’s saying.”

“Inquisitor, are you all right?” Charter called as she flipped her dagger into a position to throw it at the other elf.

“Yes, I think so.” Roslyn turned back to her attacker with a frown. “You—all right, you didn’t shoot me. Just next to me, so that I would—” She broke off and looked down at the dead marquis. “Follow you to this asshole?”

“Well, yeah,” she said with a shrug. “You’re right spry, aren’t ya? That was a neat trick with the jumping. Be better if you could do it without the magic, but…” She sighed, her eyes raking Roslyn’s face with interest. The elf’s eyebrows lifted with a smile. “Untwist thy knickers, Lady Herald. I just did you a favor.” She crossed her arms and sent Roslyn a self-satisfied smirk, that quickly soured as her point was not made.

“I did—you’ll see,” she said in frustration, turning around to rummage in the dead marquis’s pockets. She let out a triumphant _ha_ after a moment’s search, producing a crumpled note and handing it to Roslyn.

> _Lord Marquis,_
> 
> _I have received word that the Inquisition has arrived in Val Royeaux. If you are going to strike, now is the time._
> 
> _N_

“Who is _N_?” Roslyn asked with a frown. She handed the note to Charter and looked back at the young elf. Now that she could reasonably assume that she hadn’t gone mad, she studied the girl. She looked younger than her, and oddly adorable with choppy hair and wide smile. She wore patchwork clothes and draped across her back was a huge bow Roslyn knew needed skill to draw.

“No idea.” The elf shrugged. “Don’t know this idiot from manners. My people just said the Inquisition should watch out. That the Herald of Andraste was in trouble, and I thought I’d help.” She plastered a crooked grin on her face. “Means I get to lop off some little prick with a…little prick,” she giggled, “I’m game. Plus, now I know you, I can sign up.”

Roslyn blinked, trying to keep up. “Your…people?”

She grinned. “Yup. Had a little kid splash some red paint on those chickens back there and another make sure you’d come out of that shop. My people. All Jennies. Had to get you here somehow, so I thought I’d see if you really were as good as everyone keeps jabbering about.”

She braced her hands against her hips, her smile lighting up her whole face, as if her logic made sense to anyone other than her.

Charter looked up then, blue eyes sharp. “Red Jenny?”

“Yeah,” she said, then paused. “Well, no. I mean I’m one of ‘em. There’s another in Kirkwall and a couple of brothers in Starkhaven, a fence in Monfort.”

“Red Jenny?” Roslyn asked, looking to Charter.

“Network of disorganized spies working in the big cities all across Southern Thedas,” Charter answered, face calculating. “Nobody knows who leads them, or what their goal is, but ask around the nobility and you won’t get three deep without hearing some story of valuables gone missing or servant saved from cruel punishment.”

“Right, well,” the elf said with a scowl at Charter. “That’s a boring way to put it.”

“So your name isn’t Jenny,” Roslyn said slowly.

“Your name _Herald_ and _Inquisitor_?” she asked sharply. Pointing at her chest she said, “Sera. The Jennies are out there. I used them to help you find the ass who’s trying to kill you. Plus,” she jerked her head back to indicate her bow, “arrows. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Thank you.” Roslyn still felt as if she’d missed a minute of conversation in there somewhere, but she couldn’t help but smile. “You could have just told me, you know.”

Sera frowned. “Right, because people called _Inquisitor_ usually listen when you come right out and tell them something.”

Roslyn supposed she had a point, though her style was still a bit odd. Effective and bracing, but odd.

The other agent, Fisher, Roslyn now recognized, had been surveying the damage and raised his hand as a warning. “These soldiers are still alive, your worship. Would you like me to dispatch them?”

Roslyn eyed Sera skeptically before she stepped around the body of the marquis and looked down at one of the soldiers. His eyes were a bit dazed, but he seemed clear enough to be afraid as she walked over.

“Here’s the deal,” she said without preamble, “I don’t want to kill you, and I need people to testify that I didn’t just kill _him_ for kicks. What are the chances that you and the rest of your men here see reason and agree to help a girl out?”

The man blinked, but he seemed too confused to answer.

“Yes, Lady Herald,” another one called from the other side of the alley, picking himself up out of a smashed barrel of what looked like fish guts. “We were just hired by the marquis last week.”

“Glad he thought this through,” she said under her breath, turning back to Charter. She was staring at Sera with a hard, clinical gaze, as if assessing her worth to the Inquisition. _So efficient,_ Roslyn thought. “Think we can smooth this over so Orlais doesn’t assume I’m arbitrarily killing nobles who’ve insulted me at fancy dinner parties?”

Charter looked at her, tilted her head. “Probably. And Madame de Fer was present when he initially threatened you, so I believe her word would go far in exonerating you, were that the case.”

Roslyn nodded as she turned to Sera. “Thank you, Sera. I appreciate the…help.”

“Sure.” She sized Roslyn up, her nose wrinkling as if she didn’t know what to make of her. “You’re different than the stories they tell about you. A lot less,” she spread out her hands and mimed a roar, “scary and shit.”

“You caught me on a good day,” Roslyn said with only a small frown, the idea not as frustrating as it might have been even a few months ago.

“Right,” Sera laughed, gesturing at the bag still folded under Roslyn’s arm, “I mean you paint, so you can’t be that scary.”

Roslyn coughed at Charter’s curious look. No doubt Leliana would know within a few days that Roslyn had been buying supplies for a hobby she didn’t practice. “So, unless you’ve got another plot to kill me tucked in your shirt, I think we’re done?”

Sera grinned, but her eyes were oddly hesitant as she took a step forward. “Look, I get that you’ve got your operation and everything, and that’s good, right? I’m no knifey shiv-dark. But I can help with the little people. Job as big as yours, have to make sure you’re not stepping on toes that have tacks in ’em. I can help with that.”

Roslyn smiled slightly, reminded of some of the servants who used to sneak her food when the Trevelyans’ backs were turned. Brusque, practical, and entirely too kind for their own good. “I don’t doubt that.”

“Right,” Sera nodded, “so I can join, then? World needs fixing, coin needs flowing, and _you_ needs _me_.” Her grin widened and Roslyn laughed.

 _Josephine’s going to love her_ , she thought as she held out her hand. “Welcome aboard, Sera.”


	13. Silver Mist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Trust in Me" by Siouxsie and the Banshees](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mbytZCT4Cy4&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&index=13&t=0s)

The Fade curled around Roslyn as she walked beside the wolf. The hills outside Gherlen’s Pass ran down from the Frostbacks in a broken slant, rocky and jagged, choked with thick, hardy grass—the Hinterlands’ harsher, less scenic cousin. In the waking world, the snow wouldn’t fully melt for another month, but the Fade was lush with wildflowers and high-reaching stalks of yellow-green grass.

Roslyn kept one hand on the wolf as they picked their way down to an outcropping of rock, smiling when it paused to sniff at a brush of sparkling dust—an abstract thought carried on a current of energy that flowed from one of their sleeping party members. They’d camped for the night outside of a wide cave rather than stopping in one of the little villages that dotted the mountainside. Their party was small enough to get by on their own, and she didn’t want to impose on any of the farmers still picking themselves up after the Mage-Templar war. The next day, they would travel north into the pass that would lead them through the Frostbacks to Skyhold.

It tugged on her aura, that connection thrumming in its foundation growing stronger the closer she got. It had faded while she’d lived in the fortress, that or she had gotten used to it. But here it was again, amplified over the hundreds of miles between her and the Inquisition. It was always stronger in the Fade.

Her eyes caught on a point in the south where Haven should be, would be, if it weren’t buried beneath a mountain of snow. She’d asked the Chargers to survey the wreckage once Skyhold had been settled, to see if there had been anything left to save, but they hadn’t found anything. Some part of her knew it was an empty gesture, especially since she couldn’t go herself. The excuse she clung to was that she had been too busy in the past few months, and while it was true, it was just a benefit to the real reason—she couldn’t go see the remnants of the village she’d failed to save. All those bodies of people she’d once lived with trapped beneath rock and snow, because of her. Because Coryphea had come for her.

Her left hand clenched, and the wolf stopped to look back at her. Its six green eyes glowed in sympathy as it reached down and pressed its nose against her cheek.

She hummed in thanks and scratched behind its ear. “You’re sweet. Indulgent, but sweet.”

Now that the wolf was fully formed and corporeal in the Fade, she’d taken to wandering with it down odd little paths it sniffed out. When they were back in Skyhold, it had always left the fortress, wanting to explore outside. Sometimes she joined it, sometimes not. But it always came back when she was about to wake.

Duck, her first friendly spirit, still visited from time to time, though the wolf had done its best to scare the little thing away. Territorial, she’d guessed, when it had tried to snap at the bird after their first meeting.

It had a similar effect on other spirits and demons. She’d met almost none since it had reawakened in the fight with Coryphea. Whatever it was, spirit or something else, it let off an aura of hostility or power that warned all other denizens of the Fade to leave her alone. It might have been endearing, if it hadn’t meant that it was harder for her to find threads of memory when the spirits didn’t want to come near her to tease them out. It was this, she reasoned, that had let her walk unmolested for those months after getting the mark, before it had awakened.

She still marveled at the change in the wolf, from that terrifying monster which had scared her out of sleep in the Hinterlands to the pleasant, if somewhat ornery, companion of her nighttime walks now. Running her fingers under its chin, she grinned as all six of its eyelids drooped and a puff of hot air brushed against her face as it huffed in satisfaction.

All at once, the Fade hardened with a slight change in pressure. Her ears popped. The gentle hum of the countryside went silent. She turned around, heart racing, half-expecting to see Solas walking up to her, only to freeze in alarm.

A figure stepped out of a cloud of smoke, purple-red sparks dancing around its form.

The wolf’s ears flattened against its head as it lowered into a preemptive crouch. She kept her hand on its fur, both to reassure herself and to keep it from attacking.

If it was the winged woman, cloaked in shadow as she had been the last time she’d visited Roslyn in the Fade…

But no…it was something else. There was no rush of bells or ocean air, no discordant song ringing in the back of her mind. It was silent, dead, its aura masked to her. It seemed as if the entire Fade had paused to watch whatever was make its way toward Roslyn.

“Look at you,” a rasping, vibrating voice emanated from the figure, still obscured by shadow and sparks. It echoed and hummed over her skin. She frowned as it caught at her mind and pulled, unease trickling down her spine.

_Demon_.

“When I heard about the attack on your Inquisition, I was worried,” it continued, voice nonchalant. “Who would have thought a little girl like you could stand against a magister of old Tevinter?” It laughed, a harsh sound that made her jaw clench, though it wasn’t…entirely unpleasant. “I heard the old conductor’s voice shrieking into the Fade that night. You really pissed her off.”

The voice had a smile in it, a charming, gravely amusement that grew more familiar the longer she listened.

“Of course, that only means that you’re going to pay even more in blood and tears before the end, but I think you knew that already.” The demon stopped a few yards away. Its shadowed head tilted, sparks swirling over its hand as it scratched pensively at where its chin might have been. “You are _marvelously_ bright, you know. I thought they must have been exaggerating.”

The wolf snapped its teeth and its rumble got louder in anger. 

Roslyn eased a hand along its neck and said, carefully, “It might be easier for me to participate in this conversation if I knew who I was talking to.”

The demon laughed, and her heart raced at the sound, curling and running over her skin like silk, tasting like the sweetest honeyed wine. “My apologies, Herald.”

The smoke coalesced and was sucked inward. A man took shape, of middling height and build, with dark brown hair and a firm chin covered in stubble. A plain face, offset by brilliant, shifting green eyes. Dark green eyes.

“Better?” he asked, flashing his teeth in a grin. “Or do I have to be offended that you don’t recognize me?”

Her stomach dropped as she finally recognized the voice. Without the vibrating, echoing effect of the Fade, it was pleasant and rough, utterly normal, if not for the hunger that dripped over every syllable.

The Marquis of Serault. 

Roslyn stared at the man, the _demon_ , who had spoken to her that night in Val Royeaux, trying to block out the wolf’s anger as it swirled with her own fear.

“Evander, right?” she muttered. She didn’t trust herself to speak any louder. Every instinct was telling her to run, and run fast. “That’s the name you gave me at Vivienne’s party.”

“That is the Marquis of Serault’s name, yes,” he said, eyes piercing hers with a glee that was more predatory than excited. “Though _mine_ is a bit more storied.”

“Don’t leave a girl in suspense.”

He laughed again, and this time the noise was pleasant, catching. She could almost pretend he was just a normal man, if not for those swirling eyes. Where her wolf’s eyes were a gentle, fresh green that sang of mist and the humming energies of the Fade itself, this demon had eyes of green rot and decay, that held an unnatural kind of animation and glow. Even Wisdom’s eyes had been comforting, a green of spring and old growth. This was…something else entirely.

“Oh, I think I’ll keep it to myself for a while,” he mused. “Especially when I still don’t know who _you_ are.”

“Short term memory loss?”

“No, no,” he waved his hand and gave her an indulgent frown. “Who you really are. I know you’re the Herald and the Inquisitor and a little girl who ran away from her big bad sister because she cut her ears, but that’s just the surface. I want to know what makes you _you_.”

Roslyn’s jaw clenched and the wolf bristled.

The demon chuckled at her expression. “I’d suggest you cage those bristling thoughts of yours, or else I’m going to keep plucking them out of your mind like newly sprouted daisies.”

“You’re not the first demon to want to know more about me. It didn’t turn out so well for the other one.”

He brushed off the threat like swatting away a fly. “Oh, please, if I wanted to hurt you, I would have killed you at that droll party. I am much more interested in you being alive and free to wreak whatever havoc enters that burning little heart of yours. But I am a creature of curiosity, and _you_ are an enigma.”

She had to bite down on the wave of apprehension that surged through her stomach.

“For instance,” he said with nod toward her wolf, “I want to know how you gained the allegiance of my old friend.”

She tried to keep her face neutral as the wolf hesitated, their mutual shock swirling in her chest. _You know this asshole?_

The wolf growled, but it was just as confused as she was.

Was the demon just trying to throw them off?

“Sorry,” she said with a tight smile, “I don’t think it knows you.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” the demon scoffed, shifting his eyes to study the wolf with a clinical air, “it doesn’t even know itself. You saw to that. Which puts both of you at quite the disadvantage.”

“And I should believe you because you’ve been so honest up to this point?”

His smile was slow, growing like a choking vine around her throat. “Believe me or not, but that wolf of yours is not the fluffy little pet you think it is. The stories I could spin for you…” He trailed off with a wistful sigh. “Oh, how time flies when the world goes to shit. But you understand what I mean. Seen enough disaster to fill a few lifetimes, I think. Which brings me back to my initial inquiry.” He paused, and took a deliberate step forward. “ _What_ are you?”

The wolf lowered onto its hind legs, lips pulling back as it snarled. Roslyn held her ground, hand wrapped tightly around the wolf’s fur to send it a wave of reassurance. _Just a few minutes, hm? We might actually be able to figure out what you are._

He wanted a trade, clearly. He would offer them something about the wolf for whatever he needed from Roslyn. A deal.

The idea that she was even considering it sent chills down her spine. A deal with a demon, a very powerful one, clearly, to have shrugged off the wolf’s presence. But if this— _thing_ did know more about the anchor…

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific,” she said in a light voice. “Considering I don’t know any more about myself than you seem to.”

He tilted his head, appraising. His eyes narrowed and he began to circle her. She fought the urge to shiver under his gaze. It rippled over her, lurid, hungry. He’s a desire demon. Lovely.

“I think you might be right,” he mused. “That memory block is a bit of a distraction.”

“Memory block?” she said at once, turning to find him considering her.

The memories that had been taken from her during the Conclave. 

_Remember_ , the winged woman had urged her. 

The demon nodded slowly, amusement in his eyes. “Of course. It’s hovering around your head like a cloud. Whatever was taken from you seems to be rather important.” He paused, and frowned, frustration tempering the eternal nonchalance of his expression.

“What?” she snapped before she could stop herself. 

He met her gaze, curiosity kindled, but said nothing for a long time. He made the full circle, stopping when he was in front of her. His eyes lingered on her chest, but, strangely, it didn’t feel suggestive. It felt like he was looking for something. “When did you gain access to your magic?”

She just breathed, fighting the urge to refuse him at once. It was idiotic to enter into a deal with a demon. She knew that. But…things were different now. She had the wolf. She wasn’t some terrified child clinging to a table stone.

“An answer for an answer,” she finally said.

The wolf moved a little closer, bracing itself for whatever the demon decided to do.

He grinned. His eyes raked over her body once more. “Oh, all right,” he said, “but no funny business. Please don’t try and wiggle out of an agreement. I do so hate it when I’m forced to kill.” He winked at her. “You first.”

She took a deep breath, exhaled. “I was thirteen.”

His brow furrowed. “A little old for someone so powerful. I would have expected you to come into it much sooner, with a gift like yours. Perhaps all that delicious fear and self-loathing bottled it up and let it build longer than it should have. Made you stronger than you should be.”

Envy’s voice echoed with his, and she found it hard to separate the two. The Fade rippled around her, but she reined her fear back in and ignored the urge to ask him why he was so interested. If he knew anything about the wolf, that was more important. “You said the wolf was an old friend. How old are we talking?”

The demon sighed as he lapsed into thought. “Oh, we met—five, six thousand years ago, give or take a few centuries?” He grinned. “You start to get a little fuzzy on specific dates once you pass a few millennia. But _your_ wolf is much older than that. _Your_ wolf might have been kicking around at the start of creation itself. No one really knows, you see. One of the great mysteries of life.”

Her expression fell as a pit opened up in the bottom of her stomach. 

Six thousand years or more? That was…

_Elven_. Solas had said the orb, and presumably the anchor, was elven.

She’d guessed it was Dalish or…whatever came before the Dales, but not…

The wolf had grown quiet, following her thought process, as if it were unable to remember itself.

“Isn’t that precious,” the demon mused, watching them. “The pair of you formed a bond. A little odd, considering what that wolf is. What it represents. But you must have done something to change it. How’d you do that, I wonder. Not my question,” he added as she opened her mouth to tell him she had no idea, “clever girl. Just talking out loud. I do so love the sound of my own voice, you see. And it is strange to consider how someone like you might have managed it… Perhaps you had help. Perhaps you don’t even know you did. Perhaps, perhaps, _perhaps_. So many little pieces all falling out of place, the bigger picture’s been spoiled, or maybe jumbled up. Who wants to keep you all to themselves, then, if you’re not doing it on your own… I’ve got a few guesses.” His eyes sparked deepest green. “Each one of them more dangerous than the last. I fear for what you might have stumbled into, clever girl.”

He was teasing her, clearly, trying to get her to ask too much and tangle herself up in the deal.

He tilted his head and asked at last, “When did you turn thirteen?”

She blinked. _Why does he want to know that?_ “Eleven years ago this past Haring.”

The demon went still, brow furrowed in thought. He opened his mouth, as if to question her again, and then—a flicker of something raw crossed his expression. A slow, delighted smile spread across his lips. His eyes roved over her once more, a new recognition in them that made her mind riot in curiosity.

“Oh, my,” he murmured, voice low, almost reverent. “But you can’t…you _must_ be. That’s—too good. Eleven years.” He laughed in a rasping bark. “An auspicious time, though you probably were too young to realize. 9:30 Dragon was a year of change, and change you brought…” 

He shook his head, expression flickering between unbridled excitement and suspicion. Something else gleamed in their depths though, something he didn’t quite hide from her as his aura sparked and shifted. She caught a glimpse of…pain—bright hot and fierce, mixed with a slow rolling need—

And then it was gone again. The demon drew himself up, cocked his head in a gentle admonition. His hands slid into his pockets. “Now, now—no teasing me out. Unfair, Roslyn darling. Can’t spoil the finale before the curtain’s even drawn.”

He rocked back and forth on his heels, sizing her up once more. “It seems the old bitch has finally lost her edge. I mean, it had to happen at some point, didn’t it?” His voice dropped, menacing, as his eyes flashed to the wolf and back to her. “And _he_ doesn’t know. You wouldn’t be alive if _he_ knew.” 

But she noticed the change in his stance, the tension in his shoulders. He shifted, slightly to the side—making himself a smaller target.

The wolf saw it as soon as she did. It pressed forward into her hand, sniffing, and she could sense, not fear, but _readiness_ in the demon.

He let out a little noise of frustration, bending slightly, as if he were fighting the urge to run around in a circle. “And _you_ don’t know either, obviously, so I can’t ask.” He beamed at her, though it seemed forced, that flicker of pain and longing doused again just as quickly. “How confusing for you, though. I bet you’re having a very hard time with it all. One day I’ll ask again, _perhaps_. If you live that long. If no one else finds out. If you’re ready for it.”

Roslyn’s mind honed to a point.

When she was ready for it—

_You will know me,_ the winged woman had said in Calenhad’s Foothold, _when you are ready._ And again on the mountain. Roslyn had started to think she’d imagined it, had gone crazy in the months battling the wolf, fighting to keep control of her power.

But it couldn’t be a coincidence.

“Go on,” the demon urged, his voice twisting and echoing inside her mind. “You know you want to ask.”

The star that had awakened inside her on the mountaintop beat over her heart—a pulse, a reminder. The world dimmed to that sensation, that urgent tug on her mind that told her to _remember_ —

A huff of warmth on her cheek, and she blinked. The Fade had darkened, curling, silver mist rising from the ground and swirling up her legs. That urgency to know, to _remember_ , hung in the air, a mantle over her shoulders.

It vanished as soon as she realized what she was doing. The smell of wildflowers and snow filled her nose, the light returned to a soft, hazy glow, though everything remained silent and still. The wolf sent her a worried thought, not understanding the shift in her demeanor. Its pale green eyes were soft in the dim light.

She looked back to the demon, anger rippling in the back of her mind. If this demon was trying to trick her, she’d be all to happy to show him who she was. 

He was just watching her, and nothing about his expression was gleeful. It was tight with anticipation, a disbelieving frown tugging at the edge of his mouth. “You’ve met someone like me before, I think,” he said softly. “Someone who teased out that little ember inside your chest.”

“You owe me an answer,” she snapped. She couldn’t think about his words, twisting and holding her mind like snakes. _Remember_ … Remember what?

The demon’s mouth twitched, but he nodded.

“Is the wolf a spirit?”

His eyebrows lifted, amused. “Of a kind, yes.”

Her chest hollowed out. “You’re lying.”

“Not a question,” he purred. “But no, I’m not. Lies are boring. The truth is far more entertaining. Spirits come in all shades, some foreign, some familiar, some forgotten, some…forbidden,” his mouth twitched, “or perhaps _forsaken_ , is the better word.”

She listened for the thread of dishonesty, but she couldn’t find it.

Her hand tightened in the wolf’s fur. It batted her side with its snout. 

So she had bound a spirit after all. 

The idea made her skin crawl. Guilt flooded through her connection with the wolf. _He was wrong_ , she thought, trying not to let her emotions affect the Fade again. _Solas was wrong._

“One last question, I think,” the demon said, smiling at her struggle, “before your wolf decides to snap into my neck. That necklace you’re wearing—it’s a curious stone. White opal, if I’m not mistaken. Where did you get it?”

Again, her mind tried to fall into that sense of urgency, that inevitable truth that hid behind his words. What did the demon know? 

“Redcliffe,” she said with a growl. 

Let him work out the rest on his own, if he knew so much.

The demon laughed. “Ever the clever beast,” he demurred with a rakish, almost fond, smile.

She breathed slowly, trying to ignore the wealth of questions flooding her mind. So there was a connection between the stone and the winged woman, or whatever the winged woman had apparently done to her. And this demon knew. Or he thought he knew, which was more than her.

Unless he was lying, picking out fragments of her mind and trying to twist her into thinking he knew more than he did. It had to be that. 

_Demons lie, Apprentice Trevelyan,_ her mentors had said. She _knew_ they lied. 

So why couldn’t she dismiss the burning kernel inside her chest?

“Your turn,” he said with a small waggle of his eyebrows, gaze hard and burning.

Roslyn stared at him, trying to pick out one question to ask over the rest. How old was the anchor exactly, how did he know the anchor, what was it’s purpose before Coryphea took it—they all bled together in a scrambled mess. Anything she asked would be met with an answer meant to tease her anyway. She wasn’t going to get anything from him that was useful.

“I think,” she started slowly, “that I will keep my question for now.” She raised an eyebrow at his small frown. “Unless this is the last time you intend to visit me. But let me guess, you’re not the type to leave well enough alone.”

He gave her a sweet, menacing smile. “Careful what you allow, Roslyn darling,” his voice curled and pulsed around her name, making it sound wrong to her ears, “or I might just come calling when you don’t want me to.”

“You could, but I already know you don’t want to kill me. Anything else I can deal with.”

“Brave words. You are very proud for one so young.” Something fierce echoed behind his swirling green eyes. “But _perhaps_ you’re just especially reckless.”

“Or I like the idea of a big bad desire demon owing me a favor.”

His eyes narrowed in a flash of frustration, but then he laughed and took a step forward. He raised a hand as if to brush her cheek, but the wolf surged. Its jaws closed over smoke where the demon’s hand had been, but it only made him laugh harder.

His form shifted and dispersed into a cloud that swirled around her. Ethereal fingers brushed her lips, ghosted over her neck, and she jerked away. 

“ _I look forward to our next meeting, Roslyn._ ” His voice echoed and vibrated within her, and she couldn’t suppress a shiver of revulsion. “ _Do try not to die._ ”

And then he was gone, and the feeling fled with him. 

Sound came back to the Fade slowly. Drifts of color moved tentatively across the sky as the stars winked back to life.

Roslyn stared at the spot where the demon had stood as dread slipped down her spine. She’d made a deal with a demon—a very old, very powerful demon. One who had been able to trick not only her, but Vivienne, into thinking that he was a real person.

Had he killed the real Marquis of Serault? Or was it all an elaborate joke? She wouldn’t be able to find out now. Perhaps Leliana could send agents to Serault, to see if anything had happened to the true marquis. 

She closed her eyes, letting her shoulders sag. _What in Maker’s name did I just do?_

She turned to the wolf, the heavy truth of its binding falling into her stomach like anchors. She had bound a spirit. She was no better than the magisters in Tevinter, or the idiots in Kirkwall.

As it stared down at her, green eyes soft and gentle, and old beyond reckoning, it didn’t seem unhappy, or forced. But she would never really know if it had wanted to be bound to her. 

Eventually, she started down the mountain, slipping through high grass and rocky slope. The wolf followed, silent and pensive, never moving more than a few feet away from her. They stopped on a ridge overlooking the valley they would travel through the next morning. The wolf sat next to her, its movements so quiet, it might have been made of air.

“So, you’re a spirit.” She smoothed a line down its snout and scratched under its chin. “Trapped in that orb, maybe? Were you released when I fucked up Coryphea’s ritual?”

It just stared at her, a gentle calm emanating through their connection. It clearly had no idea, and it wasn’t curious beyond wondering at her own desire to know.

She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to its fur, frowning when it rumbled in comfort. “We’ll figure it out,” she murmured, promising herself as much as she promised the wolf. “Whatever you are, we’ll figure it out.”


	14. This Kid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["THISKIDISNOTALRIGHT" by AWOLNATION](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bTlKcldFRc4&t=0s&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&index=14)

Skyhold was brimming with activity when Roslyn returned. Josephine had told her that a flood of new recruits had arrived while they were gone, but she’d neglected to mention just how many. The keep seemed to have magically come together since leaving as well. There were only a few holes in the outer walls now, and the inner courtyard had been cleared entirely of debris. It was starting to look like a proper castle.

Roslyn fought the urge to sigh in contentment as she passed into the circle of the magic thrumming over Skyhold. It felt like stepping into a warm bath, or being covered with a soft blanket. 

Sera whistled beside her as they entered through the main gates. “Shit, you weren’t kidding.”

“No, it’s a pretty serious operation,” Roslyn laughed, shooting the elf a wink. “We’ve got a tavern and everything. Just over there,” she pointed to the large building on the second tier of the inner courtyard. Hopefully they’d been able to patch up the roof in the month she’d been gone.

“Ooh, Lady Herald, you know how to get a girl worked up.” Sera beamed and gave her an ostentatious salute before turning and sprinting up the stairs.

“You were doing so well, dear,” Vivienne murmured with a sigh as she walked up to her side. “And then you let that mess slip between your fingers.”

“She’s more impressive than she looks.” Roslyn smiled at her, still not used to the strange camaraderie that had formed between them on the road. She didn’t know when it had happened, but Vivienne had seemed to decide that she was in more need of her help than her frustration, and had taken to offering advice on everything from her posture to her decisions regarding recruitment. It wasn’t—comfortable, exactly, but Roslyn found that she didn’t much care what Vivienne’s intentions were anymore so long as she didn’t try to put her in a corset.

“If you insist, Inquisitor.” Vivienne patted her on the arm and walked off, the three attendants carrying her luggage and purchases from Val Royeaux hurrying to catch up.

Roslyn turned around to grab Josephine before she, too, could disappear. “I’d like to speak to Cullen and Leliana sometime today, to explain what happened with Helena.”

Josephine’s eyes softened and she nodded. “Of course, my lady. We can convene two hours past noon? That will give me time to handle all the paperwork of our expenses.”

“Thank you, Josephine.”

She inclined her head and returned to the business of getting all their new acquisitions properly housed and filed away, pointing and directing the people swarming around their returning party with polite yet commanding efficiency.

Roslyn started for the keep, looking forward to an hour or two on her own. It wouldn’t be relaxing, but it would be nice to have a bit of quiet for a while. She needed to start penning those letters to Lady Seryl and Margrave Penswallow in any case, and she was sure to have a stack of reports waiting for her as well.

She’d taken all of two steps into the great hall when her steward, Patroclus, appeared out of the throng of workers. There was a blush on his cheeks, from the anticipation of speaking to her or his haste to reach her, she didn’t know, but he seemed a bit more at ease than he had the last time she’d seen him.

“Hello, Patroclus.” She gave him a wide smile as she crested the top of the stairs to the keep. “You’re looking very well today.”

“My lady,” he inclined his head, ears red where they stuck out from his wavy black hair. He fell into step with her quickly, though he seemed to be looking anywhere except for at her face. “It is good to see you arrived safely.”

“And its good to see that you still can’t bear to look me in the eye,” she said, nodding at a few merchants and dignitaries that passed. “I can’t be that ugly, surely?”

His eyes snapped up to her then, wide and filled with horror. “No—I mean, you’re not—,” he stammered. “You’re a very beautiful woman, Inquisitor, m-my lady—”

“She’s messing with you, kid,” a pleasant voice said with a laugh. Varric stepped around a sturdy wooden table set up in front of the large fireplace to pat the boy on his arm, though it did little to help the terrified expression on Patroclus’s face.

“Only a little. I am rather vain.” She gave the young man a wink. “I was serious about looking me in the eye, though. If you and I are going to work together, it would be nice to know you’re not constantly afraid I’m going to set you on fire.”

Patroclus blinked, but nodded. “Y-yes, my lady.”

“What did you come to tell me, then?” she asked, trying very hard not to laugh. “I assume the world is still holding itself together?”

“You have five reports from Sister Nightingale on your desk and Seeker Pentaghast asked for you at your earliest convenience.” He paused. “And Master Harritt has asked you to speak with him about the matter of his new assistant.”

“Right. Lovely.” She frowned. “Harritt has a new assistant? I thought we were getting that mysterious arcanist to help him out.”

Patroclus nodded. “Mistress Dagna _is_ the arcanist, my lady, but Master Harritt seems to think she’s meant to be his assistant.”

“Oh, I see.” She sighed. “We need a bit of ego-tending, then. Just what I was looking forward to doing on my first day back.”

“I think Master Harritt is worried about his job, my lady,” he said quickly. “I mean, that’s—what I’ve heard. Anyway.”

Roslyn smiled. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind. Unless there’s anything else for me, I’ll probably just see to those reports. I have a council meeting at two if you’d like to help me afterward. I’m sure there’s something else I’m supposed to have you doing, but I can’t think what at the moment.”

Patroclus smiled hesitantly, still watching her as if she might spontaneously combust. “Very well, my lady, thank you.”

Roslyn grinned as he disappeared into the crowd.

“Kid’s half in love with you, you know,” Varric said with a tired smile. “You should go easy on him.”

“Isn’t everyone?” She eyed Varric, noting that the shadows under his eyes had only grown darker while she’d been away. “So are we talking again, or are you still being edgy and avoiding me?”

He frowned, but looked up to meet her gaze. “Yeah. Sorry. I’ve been—well, actually, I’ve been waiting for you to get back. There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

She disliked the hard edge to his voice. Never a good sign. “Of course. Is it urgent?”

“Ah,” he sighed, looking around the great hall as if to make sure they weren’t being watched. They were, of course—someone was always watching her these days, but he seemed mollified. “Sort of. I know you just got back, but there’s… This is kind of time sensitive.”

“All right,” she said with a confused smile, “but if you’re just trying to get back at me for looking after Cole when I left for Redcliffe—”

“No, no,” he laughed in a hollow voice, “although you do owe me, so I feel a little better about this.” He stared at her, his face so serious she had to laugh.

“You look like I’m going to behead you.”

“Let’s just say I’m used to intimidating women going nuts when I try to explain myself.” He scowled and rolled his shoulders with a little wince. “Come on.”

“We have to go somewhere?”

“Yeah, well…you’ll see.”

 

~  ✧ ~

 

The fields on the northern side of Skyhold had been entirely transformed in her absence. Half the land had been converted into a semi-permanent camp for their armies, already grown to twice their size since arriving four months ago. The rest of the green valley had been made into farmland. When the soldiers weren’t training, they were planting vegetables and tilling soil. It had been Cullen’s solution to the problem of too few men to get the fields into shape before planting season began. And, she guessed, a way for him to distract his troops when they had down time. _Though_ , she thought as she and Varric walked through the rows of tents, _we might now have enough people to commit our armies to training alone_.

The idea made her somewhat uneasy. They needed more soldiers, she knew that, but the more people they recruited and trained, the more men she would need to one day send into battle. To their deaths.

Varric had said almost nothing on their way down to the lower fields, giving her half-hearted laughs whenever she tried to bait him into conversation. The longer they walked, the more she wondered what could be so serious that he couldn’t even bother to frown at her when she made a joke about Bianca.

She smiled to the men, calling out to the officers she knew by name and trying to look a bit more chipper than her companion. She liked visiting the soldiers. They were damn well more enjoyable to be around than Leliana’s agents or Josephine’s dignitaries.

As they rounded a corner to walk toward a large, communal mess-tent, she caught Varric eyeing her with an amused smile. “What?”

“Nothing. You just—seem happier, I guess. More comfortable.”

She smiled at him hesitantly. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he laughed, and this time it sounded almost sincere, “I still remember the woman who had a perpetual scowl on her face as she walked through the Crossroads. Who made the scouts wet their drawers every time she looked at them. There was a rumor going around you had punched a hole through a soldier who looked at you funny.”

“That you started, presumably?”

“No, I was the one behind the exploding rams when you got too hungry to wait for dinner.”

She sighed. “I was a peach, wasn’t I?”

“It made sense, Red. Everybody was terrified. And with everything you went through… It’s just—nice to see. That’s all.”

“Thanks, Varric,” she shoved him playfully on the shoulder, which earned her an indulgent frown.

She thought about mentioning that she’d seen her half-sister, but in that moment, she didn’t really care. Skyhold was safe. Skyhold was comfortable. Even after such a short amount of time, she felt at ease here. Amongst the noise and the organized chaos of the Inquisition’s army, she felt more… _right_ here than anywhere else. Andoral’s Reach had been too tense, Haven might have become something more, but was now just a cold ruin. Skyhold was home, in a way no other place had ever been for her. She just hoped it would last.

Varric stopped before the large mess-tent. His good mood was short-lived, apparently, because when he turned back to her, his expression was anxious. “So, before you start shouting, just—promise you’ll let me explain.”

Roslyn frowned, but nodded.

He held her gaze for another second, as if steeling himself for whatever was waiting for them inside, and pulled the flap back.

The noon meal had just ended, and the tent was mostly empty. Tables had been cleared of plates and organized again into neat rows. Light shone in through a few open vents in the canvas ceiling, giving the place a warm, if spare, atmosphere.

On the other side of the tent sat a small group of people who appeared to be playing cards.

Varric cursed under his breath, and she looked sideways to find him scowling in frustration. “Of course.”

Roslyn’s eyebrow lifted, but she was distracted by a shout of anger.

One of the men got up and pointed at the man opposite him. “You filthy cheat!”

She didn’t hear the response, but whatever it was must have been nothing less than an insult to the man’s mother, because in the next second, the table tipped to the side. The three other figures jerked away as the two men started scuffling on the floor.

_Really?_ she thought with a scowl. She sprinted forward, ignoring the cries of surprise as the other three turned and recognized her.

The man who had shouted was thrown onto his back as the other man, laughing into the ground, rolled away.

Before the first man could throw himself back into the fight, she caught his arm and shouted, “You want to fight, you do it in the training field.”

He whirled on her with a snarl that froze as soon as he saw who she was. He opened his mouth to speak, but not before the man on the ground slammed his foot into the back of his knee.

She ground her teeth. A prism of arcane energy closed around the man on the ground. She flicked her hand, throwing him into the air, and released the energy just as quickly. The man swore spectacularly as he flew across the ground, landing on his ass with a laughing grunt.

She helped the first man up, who was wincing as he put weight on his injured knee. “That asshole hurt you, serah?”

He looked up with wide, confused eyes. “Ah—no, your worship. I’ll be fine.”

“You should go see a healer, anyway, just to be sure. I know how much of a bitch a knee injury can be.” Before she let him go, she made sure he was looking down at her as she said, “I was serious about fighting. You want to release tension, you do it some other way. I won’t have us devolve into a raging horde just because someone decides to cheat at cards.”

The man’s jaw clenched, but he nodded. “Apologies, your worship. I swear it won’t happen again.”

“Good, because I might not be here next time to stop Commander Cullen from assigning you latrine duty for the next month.”

Another ragged laugh split the air, and the man still lying on the ground groaned, “That pompous ass couldn’t command a dog to roll over.”

Roslyn frowned, starting to think he was just looking to get into a fight. She patted the man in front of her on the shoulder and motioned toward the entrance to the tent. “Go on,” she said firmly, looking at the other three soldiers, whom she saw were now staring at the man on the ground with murder in their eyes. “All of you, please. I have a feeling I need to speak to your friend alone.”

The man’s head lifted to meet her gaze, and he smiled widely. “Oh, I love a good scolding.”

Roslyn frowned at him as the rest left. “Did your head get rattled, serah?”

“I love the way you say, _serah_ ,” he breathed, wiping blood from his mouth where it leaked from his nose. “Makes me feel all warm and tingly.”

Varric jogged up before she could say anything, and shook his head. “To answer your question, no—he’s always been this much of an ass.”

“Varric, my dear, my darling,” the man called as he sat up, “I seem to have fallen over. Help us up, won’t you?”

She watched in growing confusion as Varric did as he asked, helping him to his feet and shooting her an anxious look.

She didn’t recognize the man. He must be new, although judging by the frustration in Varric’s expression, they knew each other quite well. There was something though…about the way he held himself. She’d never met him before, but she felt like she should have.

He was about her height, maybe an inch taller, with lanky black hair tied up into a messy bun behind his head. He had tanned skin and a scruffy beard, wide, dark brown eyes, and a large nose that was currently broken and streaming blood onto his lips. His sleeves were cut short, revealing thick, muscled arms and runic tattoos that spread from shoulder to elbow. More than anything, he looked distinctly dirty. His clothes were worn and patched as well, and there was an air of fatigue that hung off him even as he grinned at her.

“Very impressive, by the way,” he said in an accent that sounded vaguely Ferelden, but was sharper, a bit more refined. “I never could get people to listen to me when I shouted. Here you are, few months on the job, and everyone seems to hop into line without much of a fuss. Though,” he raised a hand and waved it about ineffectually, “I never had a scary glowing hand, so I guess I shouldn’t be too hard on myself.”

“You don’t have to talk all the time, you know,” Varric muttered as he faced Roslyn.

“And deprive you of my beauteous voice? Perish the thought.” The man’s eyes were still fixed on her with a kind of challenge. He looked her up and down, as if sizing her up. “Varric, you didn’t tell me the Inquisitor was so—”

“Impatient?” she finished for him, shooting Varric a hard look. “What is this?”

The man frowned, a little put out.

“This,” Varric said with a heavy sigh, “is Garrett Hawke.”

“Aw,” the man said as she tensed, “you can’t do it that way. Give me a bit more flair. You’re a writer, you should know that dramatic effect is the most important part of an introduction.”

“You ruined that by getting into a fight ten seconds before we showed up.”

“Yes, well, you were late and I was bored.”

Roslyn watched them bicker, her mind spinning. She studied the man now with sharp interest, not missing the affection that built in Varric’s eyes the longer they went without interruption.

_Garrett Hawke_ , she thought, giddy excitement and utter confusion swirling through her chest. _I’ll be damned…_

She’d spent the last five years idolizing the man who had risen from obscurity to become one of the most powerful people in Kirkwall, who had fought to free his city from a Qunari invasion, who had protected the mages of the Gallows from a mad knight commander. Stories of the Champion and the apostate he’d fought beside had been the only things to sustain her on the long trek from Ostwick to Cumberland. They’d been the spark that set her tower to revolt. If Kirkwall could do it, then none of them were caged forever.

Presented with the reality, she was finding it hard to reconcile her idol with…this.

“ _You’re_ the Champion of Kirkwall?” she asked after letting them snap at one another for a minute.

“You could sound a bit more impressed,” Hawke said in an affronted voice.

She looked back at Varric with a questioning gaze.

“He doesn’t always look like he’s been spit out of a sewer.” He tilted his head in consideration. “The blood’s pretty typical, though.”

Hawke’s scowl darkened and he hobbled over to a table. He paused, turning back to her with an exaggerated bow. “If it pleases my lady, I would like to sit my ass down.”

She nodded, and might have laughed, if her mind wasn’t trying to reconcile the image of the ragged man in front of her with the shining hero of Varric’s book.

He slumped onto a bench, leaning back against the table with a sigh. He scrunched up his face for a second, pressing his hands gingerly against his broken nose. His aura flared, and Roslyn tensed as she felt a sweet, curling pulse shudder down her spine. Rust filled her mouth and velvet shivered over her skin, but under it all, the unmistakable swell of blood magic vibrated against her magic.

The wolf rose and sniffed, tail curling around her protectively. Her mark itched, but it only gave off a soft hum of green. She crossed her arms, waiting as he finished healing his nose. Her jaw clenched as he straightened. _So, he’s a blood mage._ Varric left that out of his book.

The Champion of Kirkwall was performing blood magic in front of her, boldly and with a small bit of challenge in his eyes. Stranger still, she didn’t feel any desire to condemn him for it. 

_The times, oh how they’ve changed._

He wiped the blood from his mouth, leaving a trail across his beard, but there didn’t seem to be any more flowing from his now healed nose. His eyes fell on her marked hand where it glowed faintly. “You doing that for my benefit?”

“It reacts negatively to blood magic.”

He let out a sharp laugh and shook his head. “Right. Great. Nothing like a magnificent start to get the tensions building.”

Roslyn watched him closely, trying to decide whether she wanted to punch him or laugh at him. “In the future, you might want to try not harassing my men to gain my good opinion.”

“Your men are too attached to their pride. I was only trying to teach them a lesson in humility.”

“By cheating.”

“Badly, if you’ll recall.”

“Then doesn’t that make you a shitty teacher?”

It took him a second, but a wide smile spread across his mouth. “It does.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Is there a reason you snuck into my fortress, beyond getting your ass handed to you?”

“No, that was just a gift to you,” his smile widened and his eyes gleamed in what must have been the most obvious attempt at flirtation she’d ever seen, “ _Inquisitor_.”

“Stop it,” Varric muttered.

Hawke didn’t look at him as he shrugged. “She started it.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” she mused. He might be a mess and a half, but he was rather charming.

He laughed again and she could practically hear Varric grind his teeth.

“Seriously, this is,” she struggled for a way to describe meeting a person who’d only ever been a story in her mind, “rather surprising, but I’m still waiting for a reason you’re here and not hidden away somewhere in the wilds.”

Hawke gave her a curious look. It took only a second for his eyes to darken. He turned to Varric. “You didn’t tell her.”

“She just got back an hour ago, what was I supposed to do, shout it from the gate?” 

“Well, now I know why I was asked to hide in this bloody tent all morning. I thought you were just sneaking me in to avoid that charming seeker you keep telling me about—”

“Wait,” Roslyn said, “how did you get him past Leliana?”

“I’m not stupid,” Varric scoffed. “I told Nightingale three days ago when I knew Hawke was coming.”

“But you didn’t tell Cassandra?”

His expression darkened as he slumped onto the bench next to Hawke. “I like my head where it is, thanks.” 

She watched the pair of them, trying to think past the absurdity. “You snuck the Champion of Kirkwall into Skyhold without telling me and you’re worried about _Cassandra_?”

“You are capable of rational thought and higher-level empathy,” he said self-consciously. “She is not.”

“In Varric’s defense,” Hawke said as he slung an arm around the dwarf’s sagging shoulders, “I’m not on great terms with the current commander of your armies either. The last time we saw each other, he told me that the _next_ time he saw me, he would pop my eyes out of my skull and use them as jelly for his roast boar.”

She snorted in spite of herself. “He did not.”

“No, he didn’t,” Hawke said with a disgusted frown, “it was something much more boring than that.”

“You saw how Curly got after Haven,” Varric said darkly, looking up at her. “The less time he has to fume, the better.”

She nodded, remembering the uncharacteristic anger that had flashed over Cullen’s features at the mere mention of Hawke.

“Hold on— _Curly_?” Hawke asked in a loud, angry tone. “You gave that prat a _nickname_?”

“As interesting as it is to discuss all the people who currently want to kill you both,” she said quickly, “you still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

Hawke frowned and shoved Varric away, as if he couldn’t bear to touch his friend anymore. With a great sigh, he stood and brushed the dust off his pants. His expression changed, and his voice, which had been light and playful up until then, dropped into a hard, serious tone.

The shift happened so suddenly, she only had time to blink before she found herself face to face with the man from Varric’s stories, the Champion of Kirkwall. Charismatic, fierce, capable—and rugged enough to exude power with every shift of his body. 

“I’m here about that bitch who leveled your village and tore open the sky, of course.”

Roslyn held his gaze, breathing through the surge of tension in her chest. Varric had been rather tight-lipped about the experience, but there had to be something there. Something she could use to at least begin to understand Coryphea. “I’m listening.”

He smiled grimly. “I’m sure Varric informed you of how we met her in the first place. But…that’s not the whole story.”

She lifted a brow.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather clean up before we settle into a long discussion. This might take a while. And I would rather say it once in front of your council with you there to protect me if someone decides to throw an axe at my head.”

“Does that happen often?”

“More than you might think. I can appreciate a finely crafted blade like any other cold-blooded Ferelden, but even I can only take so many deadly objects launched at great speed to my face before the shine starts to wear off.”

She looked to Varric where he was staring at the ground in solemn silence. “Sure. Make yourself pretty and then we’ll discuss the would-be god who wants to destroy the world.”

His grin was quick, followed by an ostentatious wink that made her mouth twitch. “I’m always pretty, Inquisitor.”

“You don’t smell so pretty.”

Varric stood and shook his head. “Sweet Andraste, what have I unleashed on the world?”

Roslyn smiled at that, holding out her hand to Hawke. “It’s officially a pleasure to meet you, Hawke.”

The Champion of Kirkwall took her hand in his firm grip. “Pleasure’s all mine, your worship.” Before she could step back, he flipped her hand and bent forward in a practiced gesture to kiss her knuckles, eyes still locked on hers.

_Oh, this is going to be fun_ , she thought as she pulled her hand from his grip.


	15. Something We All Hide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Set Free" by Katie Gray](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fvDugNh-6U0&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&index=15&t=0s)

Roslyn let Varric find Hawke somewhere to clean, waving off the Champion when he suggested heavily and without subtlety that she was welcome to join him if she liked. When Cassandra did eventually find out about his presence, she wanted to have as little involvement in his being hidden from her as possible. She’d been on the receiving end of that murderous gaze too many times to want the experience repeated again.

Grabbing a quick meal from the kitchen—and scaring nearly half the staff to death by coming down herself—she went to her rooms to take off her traveling clothes and slip into a simple cotton tunic and worn linen pants. She let her hair out of its tight braid, combing her fingers through it to loosen the mass of curls.

She had actually missed the camping and travel of being on the road, the intimacy and the lack of ceremony. The feeling of not frightening people every time she walked into a room. Her rooms greeted her with an austere discomfort—too big, too grand, not truly hers. She wondered if she would ever feel like she belonged here. 

It was a few hours until she was supposed to meet her council, and she didn’t want to let the stack of reports get too tall—she’d learned the hard way that Josephine expected her to have read and absorbed everything by the next time they spoke. The woman was a harder taskmaster than all the senior enchanters she’d studied under in her Circle combined.

She grabbed the pile of notes on her desk and began, chewing on a handful of grape tomatoes she’d swiped from a basket before leaving the kitchens. She ignored the desk for the small couch sitting by the staircase down to the entrance room to her quarters, folding her legs under her and trying not to drip tomato juice onto the notes. 

Most of the missives were normal—the numbers of new recruits and refugees, incoming supplies and their rate of consumption. Discussions of money, mostly, how much it would take to finish the renovations on the southern towers to give both the mages and the templars somewhere to organize, or to build a better infirmary, where they might set up a second garden for religious officials to sit in silence for their contemplation. There were counts of workers and lumber, various stone masons they might seek out to test the vast undercroft that was still largely unexplored, yet more suggestions on which decorations she might choose to outfit the main hall of the keep.

She grinned as she read through a list of books requested by Minaeve. The elf’s handwriting was sharp and precise, her language spare. At the bottom, however, an ostentatious, obnoxiously large hand had scribbled in additions and comments. One day, Dorian was going to find himself buried in a stack of books if he wasn’t careful. _Would have been nice to get this before we got to Val Royeaux,_ she thought as she leaned back, sucking on a particularly large tomato.

She flipped to the next page and frowned. It was an elegant hand—small, compact, but graceful. Each letter was perfectly formed around the others, and yet it didn’t have Josephine’s quick, curling efficiency.

> _Inquisitor,_
> 
> _I know you will not receive this until you return from your summit in Jader, but I thought it pertinent to inform you of the status of my research into the Elvhen artifact you helped me activate in the Hinterlands. Through some experimentation, I have found an interesting—_

Red tomato juice dripped onto the page and she cursed. The note was short and dry, describing Solas’s research into how finding more artifacts might help them measure the integrity of the Veil, perhaps even predict future tears in certain areas. Even if it was no more interesting than any other report, she read it a few times, unable to stop smiling at the idea that he’d written her a note rather than just tell her when he saw her next. How had she not seen his handwriting before? Though, she conceded, the two times she'd been in his cabin back in Haven to see his research firsthand, she’d either been unconscious or...thoroughly distracted.

The note ended with an extra paragraph, as if he had added it on as a second thought.

> _You should be happy to learn that your assumption of Cassandra and Varric’s enthusiasm for the outing was correct. While the Seeker was amenable, if uncomfortable, Varric described at length all the ways in which dragging him into a ruin to deal with spirits was a service for which he was woefully ill-suited. He even hinted that further compensation might be necessary in the event he became possessed by, in his own words, ‘some thousand-year-old elf who got testy when I ruffled his dusty robes.’ I suspect, however, that he was more reluctant to return to the outdoorsafter his prolonged respite in Skyhold than to encounter any denizens of the Fade. As if those present would have remained to suffer through his constant whingeing and the Seeker’s disgusted sighing._
> 
> _I hope this note finds you well,_
> 
> _Solas_

She snorted. The idea of the three of them going off on an outing together was hilarious, even if a small part of her was sad to have missed it. Those first few months had been hard, but trekking through the Ferelden countryside with an irate seeker, a mouthy dwarf, and a snobbishly clever elf had had its moments.

The rest of the reports went quickly, though she kept Solas’s sitting next to her on the couch, eyes drawn every now and then to the red stain marring his elegant penmanship.

She still had a half-hour before her meeting with the council when she finished, stretching and looking out the window to judge the time. The small package of brushes she’d bought in Val Royeaux was sitting on her desk, taunting her. She’d tucked it into her coat that morning rather than pack it with the rest of her things. It was stupid, but she still felt so embarrassed that she didn’t want anyone to find them and think that she’d taken up a new hobby. Or ask her any questions about them at all.

_You’re being ridiculous,_ she told herself, getting up and grabbing the brushes before she could lose her nerve. She was just repaying a debt. And she needed to talk to Solas about his note. If finding more artifacts helped stabilize the Veil, then that was worth a trip before her council meeting.

A small voice in the back of her mind whispered that she was coming up with too many justifications to see him, but she ignored it. Mostly.

Roslyn slipped down the stairs of her quarters and negotiated her way through the entrance hall. It occurred to her just as she was about to walk into the rotunda that she didn’t actually know if Solas had moved his studies elsewhere—she’d been gone for so long the whole castle might have shifted and she wouldn’t know—when she came to a stop.

Her hand tightened around the brushes as she stared at a towering mural.

Red beams of light shot down from a black city, set aflame with green fire. Pricks of yellow burst in the haze, sharpening into arrows which rained down on a broken mountain. The effect was staggering, and she felt her lips part in awe as she walked forward. The panel next to it was unfinished, but she recognized the sword spearing through the center. Sitting on its hilt was the flaming eye of the Inquisition, rimmed in red and black and seared like a brand onto the wall.

She came to a stop in the center of the room, her eyes fixed on the outline of animals surrounding the blade. Heads raised to the sky, mouths pointed upward in a silent howl.

Wolves.

A shiver broke the still air and a brush of energy blew across her face.

“He put them in the painting for you.”

Roslyn turned to Cole with a sharp intake of breath. 

“And him,” he added, fiddling with the edge of his shirt, staring at her from under the wide brim of his hat. “But he was thinking of you—”

“Cole,” she said suddenly, forcing herself to stop him, “does Solas want me to know this?”

He stared at her for a long time, his face frozen in confusion. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask him.”

She smiled and patted his arm. “Then you’d better not tell me. In the future, you shouldn’t share other people’s thoughts unless they give you permission. At least not with me.”

His brow furrowed in deeper confusion. “But he—”

“Probably would want to keep his thoughts to himself,” she said firmly. A small, traitorous corner of her heart wanted to know exactly what Solas was thinking—especially if he’d felt the need to add the wolves…for her benefit. To apologize for not believing her in Redcliffe?

If he wanted to tell her, he would. Or, more likely, he wouldn’t.

Cole frowned and stared down at her hand. “I can’t hear you.”

She smiled and tipped his hat up so she could see his face more clearly. “I am sure there are many more people in Skyhold who would appreciate your help, Cole. Don’t worry about me. Have you been letting other people remember you?”

He nodded, though he seemed troubled. “Varric and Solas. Cassandra reads to me sometimes.”

Roslyn blinked. “Cassandra reads to you.”

“She says not to tell Varric, but she didn’t say anything about you.”

“That’s—that’s really lovely, Cole. I’m glad you’re making friends.”

He seemed to diminish at the word, eyes dark and hollow. “I scared my friends, and now they’re not anymore.”

The brittle tone in his voice, the swell of emotion that rushed out at her—it was heartbreaking. “You know you can talk to me if you need anything, right? I want you to be happy here, but if you’re not—”

“I don’t want to leave,” he said quickly. “I can still help here. So many hurts, piled one on top the other like dishes ready to break. Skyhold wants to be a haven, like you asked it to be, but it doesn’t know how. It needs my help.”

Her lips parted in surprise. He could feel the fortress too? But before she could ask, he vanished into a puff of smoke.

Roslyn had hoped he’d taken the last few months to acclimate to life in the Inquisition. Those first days had been hard, and she’d found him more than once trying to kill a dying patient or help where he might do more harm than good. Whatever he was, spirit or young man, he was having a hard time finding his place. And she didn’t know how to help him adjust. Or if he even could. 

A pair of voices drifted in from the main hall. Setting aside her concern for Cole, she turned to watch as Adaleni and Solas walked into the rotunda.

Adaleni was speaking animatedly in elven, gesticulating and beaming, practically bouncing on his feet as he stared up at Solas. With a jolt, she realized that he didn’t need to look up quite so much, as he seemed to have grown a bit since she’d seen him last.

Roslyn’s chest warmed. _At least one of my lost boys is happy,_ she thought.

Solas was nodding, an affectionate half-smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. He was carrying a stack of books and dressed in his usual woolen sweater and leggings, sleeves rolled up.

He looked…relaxed. More relaxed than she’d seen him in a long time.

She hated the way her mind lingered on his forearms, his smile. _That Maker-damned smile._

“You know,” she called when they were only a few steps into the rotunda, making them both look over at her in surprise, “people are going to think you’re gossiping about them if you keep speaking in a language no one else understands.”

She grinned as Adaleni flashed her a brilliant smile and ran forward.

“I didn’t know you were back,” he called as he buried himself in her chest and wrapped his arms around her waist. _Definitely taller._

“I only got back this morning, and apparently you two were quite busy. Sweet Andraste, have you gotten bigger since I left?” She frowned. “Who told you you could get bigger?”

He blushed and shoved her hands away from trying to ruffle his hair.

She looked at Solas with a hesitant smile.

He was watching her with a purposefully neutral expression, shoulders a bit tense, but his eyes were bright.

She was suddenly very glad she had Adaleni to distract her as her chest heated at his gaze. “How were the lessons this morning?” she asked, and if her voice was a bit too loud, he didn’t seem to notice.

Solas laid down the books he was carrying—huge tomes that looked as if they hadn’t been opened in decades. “Master Adaleni conjured his first barrier today.”

“Maker, you’re going to outpace me soon,” she said with another laugh, breathing through the small bundle of nerves in her stomach. She wasn’t nervous, exactly, but it had been a while since she’d seen him. 

She would just need to get used to him again. She would be fine.

Adaleni leaned back and gave her a frown. “Barriers are easy, Roslyn. It’s not that impressive.”

Her brow lifted, and she ignored Solas’s quickly hidden smile. “For some people, apparently.” She tweaked the boy’s nose. “You must be a better student than I was.”

“You don’t lack the ability, Inquisitor,” Solas said with eyes focused on his desk, sorting out books from the large stack, “merely the skill that comes with practice and patience.” Her eyes narrowed at the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, the purposeful nonchalance of his tone.

_Teasing ass_ , she thought as she bit back a smile. “How kind of you.”

He didn’t look up, but his mouth twitched in self-satisfaction.

“You could join me,” Adaleni said in excitement as he pulled on her hand to bring her over to the desk. “Solas is going to teach me about the ancient elven technique for growing plants without sunlight tomorrow.”

She tilted her head in mock consideration. “As enjoyable as that sounds, I’m afraid I don’t have time, little tree.”

Solas caught the implication in her words, and looked up. “Adaleni, would you take these books up to Dorian for me? I believe you are already late for your next lesson.”

Adaleni frowned up at her. “But Roslyn just got here,” he said with a small pout.

“Oh, my—an act to rival the master mummers in Val Royeaux,” she laughed, smoothing his hair back. “Go on. I’ll find you for dinner, and you can tell me all about what I am sure is a stimulating theory behind watching plants grow.”

His frown deepened, but he reached up to grab the books Solas handed out to him in resignation. “ _Ma serannas modhel’as, huarthen._ ”

“ _Mirtha mala serannas, da’modhen._ ”

Roslyn watched Solas, wondering at the flash of conflict in his eyes, and crossed her arms as Adaleni disappeared up the spiral staircase. “That’s quite a change,” she said.

“He is a gifted child who will one day grow into a talented mage. In truth, I enjoy the lessons almost as much as he does.” He gave her a pointed stare. “It’s not often I find someone interested in the more mundane aspects of my studies.”

She smiled at him and nodded toward the books he still had on his desk. “Business or pleasure?” Her brow furrowed in surprise as she read the spine of one gilded in silver and green. “ _On Silver Cords_? Isn’t that a compendium of first enchanters’ memoirs?”

“It is.” A slight tension bled into his voice, as if he were trying hard to be polite. “I thought it beneficial to familiarize myself with the history of the Circle to better work with the mages here.”

A small flutter of affection broke across her chest. “That’s awfully diplomatic,” she murmured. She cleared her throat, feeling his curious gaze on her cheek, and said more brusquely, “I got your note about the elven artifacts. Let me know if I can help in any way. Predicting the rifts would certainly make my life easier.”

“I will.” He paused, and she looked up to find him staring at her intently. “Are you well? You seem distracted.”

“Well as I can be,” she said with a slow smile. “It’s been an…odd month.”

He waited for her to continue.

“Garret Hawke is here,” she said slowly, dropping her voice so that no one would hear her in the tower above. “I only just found out that Varric snuck him into Skyhold a few days ago.”

Solas frowned. “That would explain his demeanor over the past few weeks, as well as the more active steps he took to avoid Cassandra.”

“Yes, and won’t that be fun to mediate when she finally finds out?” She shook her head. “If he knows more about how I can stop Coryphea, it will all be worth it. But I’m not looking forward to introducing him to the rest of the council. I expect his entrance will be even more pleasant than mine was.”

“I highly doubt that,” he said, one brow raised. “Unless you think he’ll attack the first person who tries to help him.”

She bit her lip, trying not to smile. “Maker knows, I’d hate to be shown up, or have you thinking you’re not special because I tried to kill you first.”

“Never that,” he murmured, something in his eyes shifting and holding hers.

She looked down, forcing herself not to focus overlong on whatever he was thinking.

There was a small pause as she considered telling him about the desire demon and what he’d said about the wolf. She wanted to—he might be the only one who knew how to handle her new…friend—but bringing up the anchor and what she’d done to it might break the tenuous peace they’d managed to rebuild. She didn’t want to alienate him again.

“News reached us of the unrest in Ostwick,” he said slowly, his voice gentle and hesitant.

She looked up to find him watching her closely, his good humor faded to concern.

“Oh. Yes.” Guilt washed through her mind. Of course it would have reached them by now. Even if the rest of Thedas turned a blind eye to that sort of thing, Leliana would have heard.

The wolf stirred at her unease and huffed warm breath against her cheek. “Apparently there was trouble after my appointment as Inquisitor. Helena, my—the Lady Chancellor Trevelyan had to make examples of a few elves. It’s interesting,” she said, voice hollow, “my being elf-blooded was only ever a thing she punished me for. I should have guessed that after my Circle fell and I survived, she’d try to get back at me somehow.”

A moment of silence, and then Solas murmured, “You are not responsible for the cruelty of a petty tyrant, Inquisitor.” 

“Yes, I am,” she said at once. Whether it was because Solas was…different, or if she was tired of swallowing the truth, she made no effort to hide her guilt. “She killed innocent elves because I was made Inquisitor. It’s the same reason Coryphea attacked Haven. It’s because of me.”

Solas watched her closely, his face hard with anger. He looked as if he were trying to think of some way to comfort her, but didn’t know how.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I think I scared her enough that she’ll think twice before attacking innocent people to get to me again. She showed up in Jader,” she added when he gave her a questioning look. “It wasn’t the most composed I’ve ever been, but I didn’t kill her, so,” she let out a sharp laugh, “that’s something.”

Before he could respond, a bell rang out to mark three hours past noon. 

She winced, looking down and shoving aside the hard mass of emotion lodged in her throat. “I’m sorry, all I seem to do nowadays is dump my problems onto you.” She forced her voice to brighten. “Makes me long for those early days traipsing up and down hills in the Hinterlands. Bears might have been a bitch, but at least they were obvious about it.”

“Inquisitor,” Solas started. She could still feel the concern in his gaze, the sympathy.

“I’ll figure it out, Solas,” she said quickly, giving him a tight smile. “And I need to go before Cullen tries to kill the Champion of Kirkwall. I’d hate to think what that would do for our sterling reputation.”

She stepped back, anything to get away from the needling heat in her chest.

“Oh—shit,” she murmured, nearly dropping the brush case. She’d almost forgotten to give him the damn thing. “Ah—I got you something in Val Royeaux.”

He blinked, thrown off guard by her change of subject. “You did?”

“Yes,” she said with a small frown, holding out the black case. “A replacement for the brush I broke.”

He stared down at her hand.

“Your brush, after the Venatori tried to kill me outside Gherlen’s Pass,” she added, opening the case to show him its contents. “I accidentally snapped it in half. With my teeth.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “I recall the moment.”

“Well, I am replacing it.” She realized with a jolt that there were seven brushes nestled within the open folds of the fine leather case, all of varying size and shape. She’d never actually looked inside it. “I couldn’t remember what kind it was.” _This is not normal_ , she thought in panic as his eyes slowly raised to hers. “Honestly, the whole thing was rather confusing. I didn’t realize there were so many different kinds of painting supplies. And then I had to stop another assassination attempt. Or—” _Maker’s fucking balls, stop talking._ “It was more of a proactive thing, than stopping it.”

“Someone tried to kill you while you were in Val Royeaux?” 

“No, not really—Sera, she’s new and a bit strange in a good way, I think—tipped me off to some asshole I insulted last year who was apparently planning on killing me at some point in the future. But that’s all sorted now. No worries.”

It took him a moment, but he finally reached out and took the case from her.

“They’re not the right kind,” she said with a sigh. _Great, spectacular, let’s just throw ourselves into a rift. It would be more pleasant than this fucking conversation._ The wolf brushed against her with its own confusion at her bounding heart, sending her a wave of comfort. She could feel the amusement through their connection, however, and she frowned. _Oh, go fuck yourself._

“No, they’re—these are very fine brushes.” 

“Oh.” They’d all looked the same to her. “Really?”

He nodded, the smile fading from his expression. “I can’t accept these, Inquisitor. The gift is too generous.”

That broke through some of her discomfort. She exhaled in frustration. “Of course you can. I’ve already bought them, and it’s not like I’m going to use them.” She gestured to the mural behind her, running her eyes over the second, unfinished one with the wolves. “They’re beautiful, by the way.”

He stared at her in silence, and like a growing wave she realized slowly what he might think she meant by the gift. “I’m just repaying a debt, Solas. It’s nothing more than that.” _Maker_ , this was the stupidest idea. He thought she was buying him gifts because she was… _Shit_. “Use them, don’t use them,” she said shortly, stepping back and turning for the great hall. “It’s no matter to me.”

She tried to keep her expression neutral as she left, wanting to crawl into the nearest closet and burry herself under a load of linens.

“Roslyn,” Solas said suddenly, his voice breaking slightly.

She turned around with a start to see him take a few steps toward her.

He hadn’t called her by her first name since that night on the mountain.

“I apologize,” he said slowly, voice rather rough, “it—has been a long time since anyone gave me anything, let alone such a fine gift. I don’t think you understand what it means to me that you would…” He trailed off, eyes searching her face with hesitation. “I appreciate it more than you know.”

She watched him, wondering at the choked emotion in his words. “You’re very talented,” she murmured, trying to ignore the flutter of heat in her chest.

“It is an old hobby,” he said with, if she wasn’t mistaken, an embarrassed smile, “one that I have left unpracticed too long, I think. But thank you.”

She shrugged. At a thought, she said hesitantly, “ _Mirtha mala serannas_ , Solas.” The words felt odd on her tongue, and it was much harder saying them to Solas rather than mangling them on purpose to annoy Adaleni.

His expression froze, and for one horrible moment she thought she’d offended him. 

“Isn’t that ‘you’re welcome?’ ”

A slow smile bloomed across his lips. His eyes grew bright and searching as he stared down at her. “It is.”

“Good,” she said with her own awkward smile. “See, I might not be able to cast a barrier worth a damn, but I’m good for other things.”

“I never doubted you were,” he murmured. A slight pause. “I am glad you’ve returned.”

All at once, she was sitting in his cabin back at Haven and staring into his open, beautifully hesitant eyes like nothing had happened to force them into this awkward semblance of friendship. Like the shroud between who he was and who he was trying to be fell back for one brief moment of clarity.

_Nothing more than friendship_ , she told herself, tamping down on the voice that kept looking for an affection in his gaze that no longer existed. If it ever had.

“So am I,” she said at last. “I’ve missed Skyhold.” She stepped back, keeping her expression light, as a shout rang through the great hall and into the rotunda. The sound of running footsteps and a sprinkle of curious voices rose. “Shit,” she sighed, turning to see Patroclus jogging toward her. “Did Cullen kill him already?”

“Not yet,” the young man called, breathing hard and coming to a stop with a short, awkward bow. “Sister Nightingale managed to get between them, but—”

She squared her shoulders and sent Solas an apologetic smile. “At least Cassandra doesn’t know yet.”

“She does, my lady,” Patroclus said nervously, eyes flashing to Solas in curiosity, “Sister Nightingale invited her to the council.”

“Andraste’s fucking tits,” she said with a scowl. “Pretend you didn’t hear that, Patroclus.”

He smiled, but backed away with a jerk as she stepped toward him.

Solas folded his hands behind his back. “You should hurry,” he said wryly, his expression once more cool and distant. “The stained glass in the war room is rather magnificent. It would be a shame to lose it so soon after we arrived.”

“I don’t know,” she muttered, “we could have matching holes in the war room and the hallway outside. Go with an airy, open theme.”

Another flurry of shouting, and this time she could pick out Cassandra and Cullen’s sharp voices.

“It was nice to see you again,” she said, ignoring the cold filter through her chest as she avoided his gaze. “Let me know what comes of your experiments. I’ll take whatever advantage I can get where the Veil is concerned.”

She followed Patroclus briskly out of the rotunda and into the great hall. Even as she heard Varric’s raised voice and something that sounded an awful lot like the shattering of glass, she couldn’t stop a small frown from creeping across her lips.


	16. Give Me Something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Something To Believe In" by Young the Giant](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=99TKLtv0f9U&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&index=16&t=0s)

Roslyn opened the door to the council room just in time to see Cassandra lunge across the war table at Varric.

She threw out her hand and a bubble of force erupted between them, sending them both staggering back. Markers from the war table went flying around the room along with papers and quills. Everyone froze in the chaos, and then turned to the doorway.

“Seriously?” she asked with a scowl, glaring at Cassandra and Varric. “You two can’t keep your shit together for five minutes?”

Cassandra’s breathing was hard, eyes burning with rage. “Inquisitor, I understand—”

“Nothing, clearly,” Roslyn interrupted, ushering Patroclus inside and shutting the door behind him before the entirety of Skyhold could see her inner circle trying to kill each other. “I thought I made it very clear how I felt about violence inside Skyhold.”

Cassandra’s jaw clenched so tightly, Roslyn thought she might break a tooth, but after a beat, she nodded. “My apologies. It will not happen again.”

She didn’t stop to take note of how strange it felt to be chastising Cassandra, of all people.

“See, Seeker,” Varric started with a sneer, “not everything—”

“You don’t get to say anything.” She rounded on him. “You smuggled someone into Skyhold without my permission, Varric. Or did you think I was going to let that go?”

He opened his mouth to argue, but seemed to think better of it.

Hawke, seated next to Varric on a chair he’d presumably stolen from Josephine’s office, his feet crossed and propped on the war table, gave her a wide, unconcerned smile. “I’m so glad you’re here, Inquisitor. You can tell the raging lun—”

“Shut up,” she snapped, “and get your feet off my table. Now.” When he didn’t move, she arched one brow and let her voice drop. “Or would you like me to demonstrate once again how easily I can throw your ass out of the window?”

He held her gaze, meeting her challenge with a glittering smirk. She thought she might actually have to make good on her promise, when he finally held up his hands in defeat. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to piss all over your carpet.” He slid his boots off the table slowly and stood, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed casually over his chest.

Cleaned up, she could see why he’d gained such a reputation for being a cavalier in Kirkwall. He’d trimmed his beard and cut his hair so it brushed his shoulders, curling slightly like flourishes of ink against his tanned skin. Under all that dirt and blood, he had dark, glittering eyes and a roguish smile that could probably charm the pants off most people. He wasn’t conventionally beautiful, by any means, but he oozed confidence, and that manic glint in his eyes made him seem a bit unhinged in an exciting, dangerous way. The way that could draw certain people mad with lust.

Right now, however, all she felt was frustration.

“So,” she said with a sigh, looking around the room, “hello, everyone. It’s nice to see you again.”

Cullen was standing next to Cassandra with his hand on his sword. He was staring with such cold venom at Hawke that she was surprised it hadn’t been him to break first. Leliana was watching the scene with amusement, as if she found the whole thing wildly entertaining. She met Roslyn’s gaze with approval and a short nod. Josephine seemed to be trying very hard not to break the fountain pen in her hand.

“As you’ve all figured out,” she continued, “Hawke is here.”

Cassandra’s eyes snapped to her. “You knew.”

“I only found out a few hours ago.”

A moment of silence. “I see.”

_Oh, fuck_ , Roslyn thought with a frown as Cassandra’s eyes grew hard. “I asked Hawke to remain hidden for a few hours until we could hear what he has to say. I didn’t want gossip to spread.”

“I told you,” Varric said darkly. He retreated a few paces to stand next to Hawke. 

Cassandra closed her eyes and breathed deeply, as if praying to the Maker for the will not to chop off the dwarf’s head.

“What does _he_ have to say that Varric hasn’t already told us?” Cullen asked derisively. “I’m sure he’s just here to stir the pot and cause a commotion before he slips off again to leave us with the mess.”

“Aw, did you miss me that much, Cullen?” Hawke asked with a derisive smile. “You really think I would come all this way to piss you off?” He paused, tilted his head. “You know, actually, I can see why you’d think that.”

“This is just a joke to you, isn’t it?” Cullen slammed his fist down on the table, sending what few markers were left skittering off onto the floor. “People have _died_ , you useless—”

Roslyn cleared her throat, leaning forward to catch Cullen’s eye. He stopped and looked at her, grinding his teeth as he remained silent.

“If anyone here doesn’t think they can control themselves, I want them out,” she said calmly, staring at them all in turn. “I understand that tensions are running high right now, but we are all here for the same reason. I’m asking for fifteen minutes. If you want to go back to shouting at each other when we’re done here—fine. I’ll walk you all out into the valley and let you work it out like the children you apparently are.”

_When did I become the voice of reason?_ she wondered, waiting for all of them to nod.

Cullen and Cassandra still wore matching expressions of fury, but they seemed to understand her tone.

She turned to Hawke. “You said you have more information about Coryphea.”

“I did. And I do.” His voice dropped, a measure of severity entering his expression. “I don’t know how much Varric told you about the ritual the Grey Wardens used to imprison her, but my father helped them strengthen it. He tied his blood into the enchantment, which is why the Carta came after my siblings and I.” He paused, staring directly at Cullen. “ _Blood_ magic,” he added, the words drawn out as if Cullen were a particularly dull child, “in case you didn’t understand.”

“What did the Carta have anything to do with this?” she asked before Cullen could start yelling again.

“We found out later that she was able to influence a few of the Grey Wardens while she was still imprisoned, get them to do stuff for her,” Varric said with a scowl. “Those Wardens gave some of the Carta the taint. Presumably so they didn’t have to drag Hawke into the Deep Roads themselves.”

Hawke grimaced. “At the time, we thought the only way to stop her influence from spreading was to break the enchantments and kill her. Which we did.”

“Not thoroughly enough, apparently,” Roslyn muttered, unease settling into the back of her mind.

“I don’t really know how much more thorough we could have been, Inquisitor,” he said with a dark laugh. “There was nothing left of her when we were finished.”

“Then how did she survive?”

“I don’t know,” he said incredulously. “Considering that she and I aren’t bosom friends, she didn’t give me the specifics.”

“Coryphea can influence Grey Wardens?” Leliana asked suddenly, her voice tight.

Hawke turned to her and nodded, his expression falling. “She can. I don’t know how, but she can control them from afar. We didn’t know that the Grey Warden commander we were working with was being controlled until we killed Coryphea. The woman seemed to snap out of a trance and realized that Coryphea had been the one to put the idea in her head that she could end all the Blights for good if she could only harness the magister’s power.”

The room fell silent.

“Sorry—what?” Roslyn asked.

Hawke stared at her blankly before turning to Varric. “Did you tell them anything or just hint at it like it was your next novel?”

“Yeah, I did. I just left out that part because it sounds fucking insane,” Varric muttered and gestured at the lot of them. “See?”

“Yes, fine, in hindsight, it does sound rather far-fetched,” Hawke allowed. “At the time, however, it seemed like a perfectly reasonable request.”

“You wanted to use an ancient darkspawn to _end_ the Blights?” Cullen asked in a hard voice. “That might just be the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard.”

“ _I_ wanted to settle the business my father had roped me into and get back to my life,” Hawke said slowly. “Trust me, it’s usually easier to follow these things through to the end than let them fester and grow teeth. They tend to come back and bite you in the ass.”

“So, you killed her, and left.” Roslyn shot Cullen a hard glare, but he had already looked away with an exasperated frown.

“And ten years later she blows up the Conclave,” Hawke finished. “I was just as surprised as the rest of the world to hear that the old biddy was still kicking around.”

Roslyn sighed, leaning forward to brace herself against the war table. She stared down at the place where Haven’s marker had once stood, roiling guilt and unease lodged in the pit of her stomach. “All right. Thank you, Hawke.”

“I’m not done,” Hawke said with a smile. “You think I came all the way here just to confirm Varric’s story?”

“Don’t keep us in suspense.”

His smile widened, and he pushed off the wall to walk toward her. “Well, like any devoted Andrastian who’d been forced to swallow all that ‘magic is meant to serve man, not rule over him’ bullshit his whole life, I was a bit confused at the knowledge that perhaps there was some truth to the story after all.” He picked up a marker off the floor and flipped it over his fingers like a coin. “I didn’t have much time to devote to puzzling it out—I had a city to hold together.” He waved dismissively at Cullen. “Your commander knows what I mean. It’s rather difficult to pursue one’s interests while you’re fending off assassins and qunari and templars and abominations and passionate ex-lovers—none of whom, unfortunately, cared much to debate the theological ramifications of the existence of one of the ancient magisters who assaulted the Golden City. But, then Kirkwall went to shit and I left before someone could lop off my head to decorate the harbor gates, and I found myself with a bit of free time.” Delicately, he placed the marker down onto the map, right on top of the city of Vyrantium.

“You’ve been in Tevinter this whole time?” Varric asked, sounding a little impressed. “That’s why it takes so damn long to hear back from you.”

“So, you _did_ know how to get in contact with him,” Cassandra said darkly.

“You asked me if I knew _where he was_ ,” Varric muttered. “I didn’t. Not my fault you didn’t ask the right questions.”

Cassandra fumed, but didn’t respond.

“Why Vyrantium?” Roslyn asked.

“Because it was the easiest place I could get to. A friend of mine used to live there. He knew the city and how to get me in without trouble.” Hawke frowned. “Without _too much_ trouble, anyway. I started making inquiries, tracking down leads. Eventually someone pointed me toward an old librarian who might have kept some of the record of the most powerful magisters before the First Blight. I then found my way into a whorehouse with the most delightful—”

“Skip a bit, Hawke,” Roslyn said with a wry smile.

He sighed dramatically, but seemed altogether _too_ pleased with himself. “I found a text on the high priests of the Old Gods before the religion was abandoned. Mentioned a ‘Conductor of the Choir of Silence.’ Which, conveniently, translates into Coryphea in old Tevene—with some extra bits on the end. Apparently, she was the last High Priestess of Dumat before the sect relocated to everyone’s favorite vacation destination,” he grinned, “Kirkwall. Or the city it was before it was leveled by Maferath.”

Leliana tilted her head in thought, eyes hard and distant. “It is a place to start. We might be able to learn more about who Coryphea was before she assaulted the Golden City. Dorian might have some luck tracking her down.”

“I’m sure he would be interested, in any case,” Roslyn mused, half-expecting the man to burst in and accept right away.

“I talked to a woman who seemed to think there might be some old records dating back to the founding of the city,” Hawke said. “Down in the depths of Darktown, of course, where lurk lots of fun and exciting things to be terrified of.”

Varric laughed darkly. “So many fond memories of those damn sewers.”

“So you left Kirkwall only to go back?” Roslyn asked.

Hawke shook his head. “Right about then the rumors started spreading north of a woman who had faced down an archdemon and an ancient magister from the Imperium and survived after a mountain fell on top of her.” He shrugged. “Figured it might be worth my time to pop back down to Ferelden and see if I could help.”

“You expect us to believe you want to _help_?” Cullen asked coldly.

“It might clash with your opinion of me, but I do sometimes enjoy helping other people.” Hawke arched a pointed brow. “I seem to recall helping you a few times over the years when your little babes in armor couldn’t piss straight without killing a mage or two.”

Cullen clenched his jaw, but didn’t say anything.

Hawke’s eyes darkened as he looked back to Roslyn, a grim severity falling over his features. “Coryphea is my responsibility, Inquisitor. If I can help, I will.”

Roslyn considered, weighing the benefits of having the Champion of Kirkwall join her inner circle. Part of her wanted to accept at once. Garrett Hawke was a legend, a fearsome fighter, if the rumors and Varric were to be believed. He was a symbol of the effort for mage freedom. He was, or had been at one time, a hero to her.

And in the end, Maker judge her, that mattered more to her than anyone else’s misgivings. 

“Thank you, Hawke,” Roslyn said, readying herself for an argument. “The Inquisition is glad to have you.”

To their credit, both Cullen and Cassandra were able to keep their outrage mostly hidden—the only signs being Cassandra’s sharp exhale and Cullen’s tightened grip on his sword.

Hawke grinned widely. “Beautiful. It’s been a while since I’ve thrown myself headfirst into a fight I had little chance of winning. Feels like old times.”

Roslyn bit back her smile. “As lovely as this meeting has been, I’m going to ask you to leave now. I need to speak to my council alone. Patroclus,” she turned to the boy, who had watched the entire meeting with wide eyes, “can you find the Champion somewhere to sleep? I’d like him not to continue bunking with the soldiers.” She looked at Josephine, who had remained uncharacteristically quiet. “Unless you have something in mind?”

“I do, in fact,” she said shortly, eyeing Hawke with a tense smile. “Start without me, Inquisitor. This won’t take long. If you’ll follow me, Master Hawke.”

“Patroclus can still show you around, if you like,” Roslyn offered. “Get you sorted.”

Josephine left the room quickly with Patroclus close on her heel. Before he followed, Hawke looked back over his shoulder with a winning smile to Cassandra. “Dead chuffed to finally meet you, Seeker.”

She said nothing, but Roslyn could have sworn a faint blush broke out on her cheeks.

Varric’s eyes were fixed firmly on the ground as he followed Hawke out. “I’ll see you later, Red,” he muttered, edging out the door sheepishly.

Cassandra made to storm out after him, before Roslyn said quickly, “Wait, Cassandra.”

With a stiff jerk, she turned and said, “I am not a member of the council.”

“Yes, I know,” Roslyn said with a sigh, “but I want to make sure you’re comfortable working with Hawke.” She looked pointedly at Cullen. “Both of you.”

Cullen arched a brow derisively, staring daggers at the war table. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

He looked up in surprise, some of his anger fading.

“I’m not asking you to like him, or get along, but we do need to work together. That can’t happen if you start fighting every other second.”

“You’ll need to get that promise from him as well,” Cullen said with a frown.

“Believe me,” she said firmly, “I have every intention of getting his utmost assurance that there will be no more provocation on his part, or he’s gone.”

His shoulders sagged, the fight going out of him with a short laugh. “That will almost be worth it.”

She smiled, eyeing Cassandra with concern.

“I harbor no ill-will toward Hawke, Inquisitor,” she said coldly, still staring venomously at the door.

“I can’t have you killing Varric either,” Roslyn said softly. “You know you’d regret it in the end.”

Her jaw clenched. “I am not so sure.”

“Cassandra—”

“He is a liar and a snake.”

“I know,” she said solemnly, “and you have every right to be upset. Just don’t throttle him.”

Cassandra took a deep breath, finally looking at her with narrowed eyes. “I promise not to physically harm him.”

Roslyn grinned. “Everything else is fair game, as far as I’m concerned.”

Her mouth twitched into a smile as Cassandra left the room. Turning back to the war table, she frowned at the markers thrown across the room. “We had a record of where all this went, right?”

“Yes, Inquisitor,” Leliana said with a smile, though her eyes were still hard, “and the chaos is preferable to Varric’s death.”

“Can we blame her?” Cullen asked darkly as he began collecting the scattered pieces.

“It would be nice if you two could check that the doors were closed before you start shouting. I heard you in the rotunda, for Maker’s sake.”

“Don’t think I don’t find your insistence on civility a little ironic,” he said with a pointed look.

She grinned as she dumped a handful of markers onto the table. “I said that you all were mad for asking me to lead. You have no one but yourselves to blame for my sudden maturity.”

Leliana laughed. “An ill omen, indeed.”

As they reset the markers, Roslyn told them of what happened in Jader. She down-played her own fears over why Helena had killed those elves in the alienage, though she was sure Leliana guessed what she left unsaid. Her eyes were sharp and cold, anger burning just under the surface. No doubt she was thinking of a thousand ways she might depose Helena without tying it to the Inquisition.

Roslyn had to force herself not to ask. She wouldn’t use the Inquisition to settle her own disputes, and the idea of directing spies or agents to covertly affect another country’s stability was downright abhorrent.

“Is everything all right with Josephine?” Cullen asked after their main business was settled. “She seemed a bit…short with Hawke. Not that I blame her, of course,” he added with a scowl.

“I didn’t exactly shine in Jader,” Roslyn muttered. “I’m sure she’s had to do all kinds of damage control.”

“Your insane half-sister showed up unannounced after murdering a bunch of elves to insult you. I think you did as well as could be expected.”

She gave him a tight smile, trying not to chafe at the casual way he laid out the situation, but studied Leliana’s hard expression.

“I am sure Josephine is under the same stresses we all are,” Leliana said quietly, gathering up her things.

The note of weariness in Leliana’s tone gave Roslyn pause. She looked just as put together as she always did, just as inscrutable, but Roslyn saw the tension in her shoulders, the tight set of her lips. She was tired as well.

Leliana left her and Cullen without another word.

“A few months and we’re already starting to show signs of fatigue,” she said with a frown, stretching out her back where it was sore from riding all morning. “I’m doing such a bang-up job.”

“You’re doing better than we could have hoped, my lady—I mean, Roslyn,” he corrected awkwardly as he caught her sharp glance. “Considering that we’re trying to do something that hasn’t been done in nearly a thousand years, I think you should give yourself some credit.”

“Cullen, you’re going to make me blush,” she said with a wide smile.

His brow furrowed wearily. “Please stop.”

They fell into step together as they left the war room.

“So,” Roslyn started, still smiling, “you and Hawke are old friends, hm?”

Cullen’s expression darkened. “We crossed paths a few times in Kirkwall, yes. And I knew his sister rather well.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Cullen, you dog. No wonder he hates you.”

“It’s not—that’s—” He looked at her in frustration. “She was in the Circle. That’s all I meant.”

“Ah.” _Not so simple, then._ She struggled to keep her voice light as she continued, “I only know of him through the stories, but I can imagine how a templar might not get along with the symbol of the mage resistance.”

“That certainly didn’t help things.” He shook his head and his voice went hard. “Garrett Hawke is a selfish bastard. He’s flashy and charming, but at the end of the day, he’ll do whatever he needs to do to save himself.” He met her gaze then, his expression serious. “Just be careful how far you trust him. Varric is a good man, but he’s got a blindspot where it comes to his friends. I’m not saying Hawke is dangerous, he’s just…difficult.”

Roslyn wondered at the layered conflict in his eyes, the hardness in his mouth that went beyond his dislike of one man. “All right. I trust you.”

Cullen came to a stop, surprise flashing across his face. “You do?”

She let out a short laugh. “Is that so surprising? You’re the commander of my army. It’d make things a lot more complicated if I didn’t.”

He was silent for a time, before he nodded. “I see.”

“I do trust you, Cullen,” she said softly. “I know we got off to a bit of a rocky start, but… You’re about the closest thing I have to a friend these days.” When he remained silent, just starting at her, she hit him gently on the shoulder. “The longer you stand there gaping at me like a fish, the more awkward this will be when you finally say something, you know.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, mouth twisting self-consciously. He took a deep breath, still watching her with a pained expression. “I never— _thank you_ for sparing the templars,” he said in a rush. “You had no reason to, especially after what you went through with Envy—with…your Circle.” He exhaled sharply and shook his head. “Maker, you’d think I’d be able to say this without stumbling.” He looked back up at her, eyes firm in their sincerity. “I won’t pretend that I’ve always been a good man. I haven’t. I especially haven’t when it comes to mages. It took me a long time to understand— But I want you to know that I respect you deeply, Roslyn. And that I will try every day to be worthy of your trust.”

She took a moment to work through the knot of emotion in her throat. _Maker’s balls, that was sincere._ “I…appreciate that, Cullen.”

Another moment of awkward silence. 

“You should also know that I have stopped taking lyrium,” he said, his eyes hesitant.

“You—really?”

He nodded, and she saw again the tight set of his shoulders, the bags under his eyes, the haunted pain that seemed to pour out of him. Of course he looked like death. _And that’s why he didn’t have any lyrium in Haven_ , she realized with a jolt.

“Are you all right?” she asked in concern. “Cullen, that’s—it could be dangerous.”

“I know. I’ve asked Cassandra to keep an eye on me, in case… But that’s why I’m telling you. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m not aware of the risks, and what it might mean for my judgement.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she muttered in frustration. “It could _kill_ you.”

His brow furrowed, but he held her gaze. “It could, but whatever pain it causes me, I am prepared. When I left Kirkwall, I swore I would not allow myself to fall prey to that madness ever again. After Therinfal—after seeing what happened…” He clenched his jaw. “I will not be bound to it anymore. I can’t.”

As far as she knew, no templar had been able to break their lyrium addiction before. Or if they had, they’d been quiet about it. There was a reason why the Chantry held such a tight leash on their knights. If people knew what happened to men and women who took it for too long, they might not look so fondly on the Order’s methods.

“That’s very brave of you,” she murmured.

“It’s not,” he said without hesitation. “I let my knight commander terrorize innocent mages and turn my city into a war zone. I turned a blind eye to her tyranny for years. Any atonement I’m making is too long overdue.”

“Aren’t you the one who just told me to give myself some credit?”

He shook his head. “It’s not the same.”

“Most people don’t even _try_ , Cullen. Speaking as a mage, you don’t hear everyday that the people who once jailed you are trying to do better by you.”

The muscle in his jaw feathered. “It’s the least I can do.”

“It’s more than that and you know it,” she said with a frown. “I want your word that you’ll tell me if you’re having trouble. None of this stoic, suffering-in-silence bullshit. I want to help if I can.”

He looked down in discomfort. “You don’t have—”

“I know I don’t have to,” she said firmly. “I _want_ to.” She took a step toward the great hall, tugging on his arm with a pointed look. “Come on, I’ve got a dinner date with an elf, and I assume you need to go brood in your tower or else your men will start to worry.”

His expression smoothed a fraction, though he gave her an odd look as they entered the great hall. “I didn’t realize that you and Solas were—”

“What?” she asked in a loud, sharp voice, scaring the few people that were walking past them. “No, Andraste’s _tits_ —I meant Adaleni.”

“Oh.” He frowned as a blush crept up his neck. “Sorry. Well, I just thought—you two are close…”

“You thought wrong.” She looked forward purposefully as they turned toward the front door of the keep, not letting her eyes stray toward the rotunda.

“All right,” Cullen said carefully. “I didn’t mean to insinuate.” She could feel him watching her out of the corner of her eye. “There’s really nothing there?”

“I didn’t think you were the type to gossip, Cullen,” she said under her breath, glaring at him.

“I’m not,” he said with raised brows, trying and failing to keep a smile from his mouth. “Forget I said anything.”

“Go stew in your tower,” she muttered as she stepped away toward her rooms.

He just nodded, rubbing one hand against his chin. “See you tomorrow morning for practice, I suppose.”

“Oh, yes. I’m looking forward to it,” she called, turning on her heel before she could acknowledge his sharp laugh.


	17. This Offering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up)" by Florence + The Machine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GF6kBNLTvaU&index=17&t=0s&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S)
> 
> *Updated with new content on 4/21/18*

Roslyn quickly realized that Cullen’s warning about Hawke was not just the product of a personal grudge. 

If he wasn’t getting drunk in the tavern with the Chargers and Sera, he was antagonizing the templars or poking fun at the mages. Minaeve had banned him from the north tower for upending a table once when he was trying to flirt, unsuccessfully, with Dorian. While some of the soldiers seemed to enjoy his company, he’d gotten into not one, but two more fights since arriving.

For a Champion who had supposedly held a city on the brink of war together with his own bare hands, he lacked the necessary tact and diplomacy to talk himself out of brawl. That, or he just didn’t give a damn. She was starting to suspect that Varric had played up his friend’s better attributes just a touch for dramatic irony in his book.

Roslyn was coming down from the library where Dorian had given her a short report on his efforts to figure out who Coryphea had been before assaulting the Golden City, when she caught sight of Hawke lounging on top of Varric’s table like some Orlesian _ingénue_. Outside the main hall, she heard an uptake in voices, and guessed that Derek and the mages from the Free Marches had finally arrived. Scouts had reported them coming up the final bend in the mountain pass earlier that morning.

“I thought I told you not to put your feet on my table, Hawke,” she called without looking up from her report.

“You told me not to put my feet on your _war_ table,” he said loudly. “This is a different table.”

_Really?_ she thought in frustration, stopping to shoot Varric a hard glance. He studiously ignored her, and kept his eyes glued to the stacks of paper in front of him.

“It’s a table, isn’t it?” she said. “The same rule applies.”

Hawke looked up, his mouth sliding into a wide grin. “Every single table in Skyhold? That’s a lot of tables to be constantly monitoring, your worship. You’re a busy lady. I figured you might have bigger things to worry about than little old me and my darling feet.” His eyes flashed in anticipation as she turned around to face him. “Unless you’re into that kind of thing.”

Roslyn held his gaze, her patience for the incessant flirting starting to wear thin. She’d enjoyed it at first, but he was starting to embarrass himself. And the more she let him poke at her control, the easier it would be for everyone else to cut corners.

“Off the table. Now.”

A few people slowed to watch the interaction, eyes darting between the two of them in curiosity. It wasn’t the first time someone had needed to pull Hawke away from a scene. She was just glad Cullen had been conveniently busy the past few days. She made a mental note to order Josephine some of those fancy chocolates she liked for so expertly maneuvering the two men away from each other.

Hawke made no move to obey, but merely shrugged. “Varric’s the one who uses the table the most. I think it only right that he—”

“Keep me out of this,” Varric muttered, grimacing up at her with guilt. She had to give him credit for trying to control his friend, but it seemed that Cullen had been right about his soft spot where Hawke was concerned. “Just get off the damn table, Hawke.”

“Oh, come on,” Hawke said with a laugh. “It’s just—”

“I’m not going to ask again,” she said, unable to keep anger from bleeding into her voice. All of that admiration and worship she’d held for her hero, the Champion of Kirkwall, every time she’d thought about him liberating the mages from the Gallows—it all seemed so stupidly naïve when faced with the disappointing reality.

For a moment, she thought he might realize she wasn’t kidding. But then Hawke merely shifted, sliding one foot after the other off the table, letting them hang above the ground as his eyes never left hers.

Everyone in the great hall froze.

“Varric,” she said calmly, not looking away from Hawke, “I’d remove those notes if you want to keep them.”

“Red—Inquisitor,” Varric started, rising slowly to his feet and looking between Roslyn and Hawke in alarm. “This—”

“No, no, Varric,” Hawke said with a smile, “let the woman—”

Roslyn didn’t let him finish. Without moving her hands, she shot a prison of arcane energy to wrap entirely around Hawke’s chest and arms. His voice cut off in a small yelp as she lifted him bodily into the air and shoved him into the stone wall next to the fireplace. She thought about moving him a bit to the right and letting his boots lick in the flames for a moment, but decided against it.

She turned slowly, letting the wolf rise and thread itself into her spell. Green flames flickered over the sparking white energy of her prism.

Hawke’s smile seemed a little forced now, but she could tell he was letting her hold the spell. She felt no resistance on her aura, no push back of his own magic to break her hold. Her eyes narrowed as she stepped closer, letting her prison constrict slightly, not enough to really hurt him, but enough to get her point across. The wolf bared its teeth and the flames jumped a little higher up Hawke’s chest. They were harmless, without heat or spark, but they still flickered menacingly.

He let out a breathy laugh, raising his eyebrows. “A little tight, Inquisitor, don’t you think?”

She stopped when she was only a foot away from him, lifting her chin to meet his gaze where she held him a few inches off the ground. “You seem to be under the impression that we’re friends, Hawke. That what I say doesn’t apply to you. I’d like to disabuse you of this notion.” She lowered him to the ground, pressing him more firmly against the wall. She let her her voice drop so that the people watching them could not hear her over the sparking of her magic. “I accepted your help, but I would just as soon throw you out into the Frostbacks on your ass. Trust me, they’re not the most forgiving place to get lost.”

Hawke’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, the challenge hardening in his gaze.

“I don’t want to,” she continued, swallowing some of her anger and releasing her prison, “but if you continue to push me, I will ask you to leave.”

He caught himself before he could fall, standing straight and keeping his eyes locked on hers. A flash of confirmation crossed his face, and she realized with a jolt that he’d been testing her.

“Message received, your worship,” he said with a small, self-satisfied grin.

They stood in tense silence, less than a foot apart, waiting for the other person to break.

A flurry of motion came from the front doors, and a high, female voice called out, “ _Garrett_?”

Hawke jumped, jerking to the side so quickly he might have been electrocuted. His eyes went wide as his expression shifted from shock to dread in the span of one second.

Roslyn turned around, wondering who on earth could have put the fear of the Maker in Hawke so quickly, and was faced with a short, pretty girl with thick black hair and brown eyes.

“ _Sunshine_?” Varric asked, his own face a mixture of confusion and happiness.

The woman’s eyes flicked to the dwarf, softening slightly, before she stared back at Hawke with a look that might have been excitement or anger. She surged forward, Roslyn stepping out of the way hurriedly, and threw her arms around Hawke’s neck. She let out a small, shaky cry and mumbled something incoherent, but which sounded distinctly angry.

Hawke’s arms hung in the air as if he didn’t know what to do with them, staring down at the woman gripping him so tightly he shook as she tried to quiet her sobs. He looked entirely caught off-guard, mouth parted slightly in trepidation.

But then his eyes snapped to Roslyn, and his posture relaxed. “Ah, Bethany—”

The woman drew back with a deep breath, an expression of fury contorting her sweet face. Her hands gripped the front of his shirt and shook him, like she was reprimanding a dog for bad behavior. “I thought you were _dead_ , you absolute ass. I thought you were lying at the bottom of a ditch somewhere with a knife in your back, you arrogant, useless, nug-humping piece of _shit_!”

Varric snorted, but quickly covered it with a cough. Hawke seemed to be trying very hard not to move so much as a muscle as the woman continued, “Fenris wrote me the second you disappeared from Vyrantium, going Maker knew where for what purpose, and I find you _here_? Andraste’s ass, the _Inquisition_ , brother? Do you actually have a death wish or are you so stupid that you’d run headfirst into the most obvious danger you could find? And you had the nerve to ask Aveline to take me out to pasture while you’re gallivanting about Thedas getting mixed up with with the bloody Inquisition?”

For a moment, the only sound in the great hall was the woman’s ragged breathing. Hawke opened his mouth once and closed it, eyes darting to Varric and then Roslyn. To her amazement, a pink blush crept up the skin under his beard and over the weathered skin on his cheeks.

_Oh, Maker, this is amazing_ , she thought with a growing smile.

His brow furrowed as he met her gaze, and he coughed. “Bethany, this isn’t the best place for this kind of con—”

“You are not getting out of this, Garrett. Not this time.” Bethany, his _sister_ , took a deep breath, angry tears still leaking from her eyes. “Carver’s missing,” she said with another broken sob. “Which you would already know if you weren’t—”

“What do you mean, Carver’s missing?” Hawke asked, his voice dropping immediately.

She sucked in a deep breath, tear-streaked face going hard. “I haven’t heard from him in months. I’ve been trying to get out of Kirkwall, but with the madness of that thing in the sky and the Inquisition showing up when they did,” she waved a hand behind her, and it was only then that Roslyn saw Derek standing awkwardly a few feet into the doorway, “I haven’t been able to find out where he is. He—”

“Hey, Sunshine,” Varric interrupted, smile somewhat strained as he stared pointedly at Roslyn, “You might want to introduce yourself before you two dive into rescue attempts. Just a hint.”

Bethany frowned at Varric, then followed his gaze and locked eyes with Roslyn. “Oh—I’m sorry,” she said quickly, stepping back from Hawke and wiping her cheeks with shaking hands.

“That’s all right.” Roslyn looked back at Derek, who seemed just as confused as she was. “The world’s a bit mad these days. You’re not the first to burst into spontaneous hysterics.”

Bethany let out a startled laugh. “Still, my apologies. My name is Bethany Hawke.”

Roslyn waited for a moment, only to realize with pleasure that she clearly had no idea who she was. _That is so refreshing._

“Beth, this is Lady Roslyn Trevelyan,” Hawke said with another sharp glance at Roslyn. “The Inquisitor.”

_And there it goes_ , she thought as Bethany’s face flushed bright red and she spluttered, “Oh, my lady—I mean, your worship—”

“It’s fine,” Roslyn said shortly. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Serah Hawke. I’m sorry to hear about your brother.”

Bethany blinked, but managed, “That’s very kind of you, your worship.”

“What do you mean, he’s missing?” Hawke asked in a sharp, steady voice. Gone was the bravado and the roguish apathy, replaced with that same steely severity that entered his voice when he talked about Coryphea.

“The Wardens were stationed outside Wildervale when they all vanished into the woods,” Bethany said, still watching her brother with a mixture of anger and desperation. “I wouldn’t think much of it, except—”

“Sorry,” Roslyn interrupted, stepping closer and lowering her voice so the gathered crowd couldn’t hear, “your brother is a Grey Warden from the Free Marches?” 

Hawke met her gaze, catching her tone of interest immediately. “Yes.”

Roslyn frowned, acutely aware of the gathered crowd, and turned to Bethany. “Was it just him who went missing, or his entire regiment?”

Bethany looked between her and Hawke, still flushed. “As far as I know, all of them. I sent letters to Starkhaven and Antiva, but my friends there say the same thing. No one’s heard anything from the Grey Wardens for months.”

Roslyn took a deep breath, mind racing. So it wasn’t just Ferelden. “The Wardens at Amaranthine vanished without word a few months ago as well.” She met Hawke’s gaze, saw the sharp recognition that he was thinking the exact same thing she was. With one glance around the hall, she caught sight of one of Leliana’s agents. “Charter, can you ask Sister Nightingale to meet me in my quarters at her earliest convenience?”

The elf nodded, bright blue eyes sparkling with interest, and turned away at once.

“If you’re not overly tired, Serah Hawke,” Roslyn murmured, “I would appreciate it if you could explain more thoroughly when and how your brother went missing to my council and I. Somewhere more private.”

“You think it’s connected?” Hawke asked, voice dropping to follow her lead.

“I think it’d be a big damn coincidence that Grey Wardens across Thedas go missing at the same time an ancient darkspawn resurfaces with aspirations toward godhood.” She stepped around them, nodding toward the other side of the hall. “You two can wait in my rooms while I get the rest of my council.” She arched a brow at Hawke, wondering if maybe she shouldn’t have the walls padded in case more of these tense reunions were going to occur there. “Give the two of you some time to chat.”

She turned before she could see his expression, moving through the crowd to Derek.

“Walk with me,” she said, grabbing his elbow and towing him out of the keep.

“Am I being thrown out already?”

“I just need to break up the audience,” she murmured, giving him a pointed stare. “And this way they can talk about why the Inquisitor had to rush off with her old friend and leave the Champion of Kirkwall in her wake instead of wondering why I just had him pinned to a wall.”

Derek’s eyes went wide with interest, but he understood without asking that she didn’t want to talk about it. “So, that’s Garrett Hawke.” He frowned, staring over his shoulder. “Thought he’d be…bigger, or something. From the way he took down the Arishok in single combat, I thought he’d be a giant.”

“I have a feeling Varric might have…embellished a bit.” Roslyn smiled ruefully. “Trust me, his ego more than makes up for what he lacks in bodily mass.”

“And Bethany is his sister. Huh.” When she gave him a questioning glance, he shrugged. “She seems nice. Bit quiet, but nice.”

“As long as she can keep shutting him up, I’m prepared to offer her a place on my fucking council.”

“Careful,” Derek said with a smile, pulling her in for a one-armed hug, “you’re starting to sound like you’re getting used to this leadership gig.”

Roslyn let him squeeze her shoulder, but ducked away when he tried to tug on her braid. She was glad they’d been able to fall back into their old relationship, even after she’d become Inquisitor. She’d been worried for a while that things might change between them, but his promise in the days after Haven, that he would treat her normally to keep her ego from growing too large, had remained true, to her relief.

She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed him the last few months.

“You feel skinny,” she said, poking him in the ribs. “Did you eat anything on the road?”

“It is so nice to see you as well, _my lady_ ,” Derek said with a flourish, turning awkwardly to bow mid-step.

Roslyn snorted. “Please never do that again. Ever.”

“As your _worship_ commands.”

“I really will throw you out if you keep that up.”

Derek’s smile faded as they walked. “What was that all about? If you can tell me, obviously,” he added, frowning.

“I’m not sure yet.” She paused, wondering if there was some reason to hide her suspicions. It was Derek, for Maker’s sake. What was he going to do, run around Skyhold shouting her secrets to the world? “I think there might be something going on with the Grey Wardens. Keep it to yourself for now,” she murmured as she caught sight of the group of mages milling about the lower courtyard. Some were still dressed in their Circle robes, while others had donned more inconspicuous clothing and cloaks. “Don’t want people getting into a panic over nothing.”

“Is it nothing?” Derek asked, face serious as he stopped at the base of the entrance stairs.

“Oh, of course, because my luck’s held so far.” She straightened, forcing herself to smile out at the gathered mages. “You know, if I didn’t know you more intimately than anyone else in the whole world, I’d say you did a bang-up job getting all these mages here in one piece.”

Derek followed her gaze with a grin. “I was just minding my own business one day and they all fell in line like ducklings. Maker knows how it happened, but here we are.” His humor leveled out, replaced with a matter-of-fact tone that surprised her. “We’ve got a little over a hundred recruits that will need sorting. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll coordinate with Fiona about where to place them. Some will leave once they realize what joining the Inquisition will entail, but most seem willing to fight. Or at least help in other capacities. We’ve got a few good healers as well, so I imagine that ridiculous surgeon of yours will be grateful for the help.”

“Look at you,” she mused, tilting her head and looking him over. His unruly brown hair was pulled back from his face by a black band, though she could see streaks of gold in it from the sun, his face tan and heavily freckled. His blue eyes were bright, as always, though they seemed almost harder than the last time she’d seen him. “Talking about coordinating and recruits. One might mistake you for someone who actually knows what he’s doing.”

He scowled, but there was no bite in it. “You’re one to talk.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she murmured, ignoring the small unease that filtered into her chest.

She had changed, hadn’t she? It didn’t make her flinch every time someone used her title anymore, and even though she would never be comfortable with the constant staring, she had gotten used to it. Had grown able to mold it to her advantage, when it was necessary. The show in the great hall only moments ago had proven just how used to control she’d gotten. Maybe that was why Hawke had been giving her such a hard time.

“You okay?” he asked after a moment, sensing her discomfort, as he always did.

She smiled thinly, eyes cast wide across Skyhold’s courtyard. “It’s been almost a year since the Conclave. You’d think I’d be used to this by now.”

In a little over a week, it would be exactly one year since she’d fallen into this new life. Part of her shied away from the knowledge, but she forced herself to sit with it, as she did every night as she stared up at her fine ceiling, lying in her fine bed. There was no going back now, and the more she reminded herself, the easier it became to live with the discomfort, to twist it into a shield, a reminder. 

“Not that much has changed, you know,” he mused. She shot him an incredulous look, but he only shrugged. “You’re still bossing everyone around. You just have a fancy title now.”

She found herself fighting a smile. “Two titles, thank you.”

He snorted and began to make his way down to the lower level, where a scuffle had broken out between one of his mage recruits and what looked to be a goat. “And she scolds me for calling her a lady.”

 

~  ✧ ~

 

The council meeting with Bethany and Hawke went about as well to be expected. They knew nothing more than Leliana, though she thought her agents might have traced a lead to the northern edge of the Bannorn, outside a small town called Crestwood. Preparations were being made to leave by the end of the week, with both Hawke and Bethany insisting on joining Roslyn. 

She’d accepted, if only to save herself the trouble of arguing. It would be a small team, with the Chargers, Sera, the two Hawkes, and Solas, along with a few of Leliana’s agents. All the better to root out whatever wardens might be hiding in the Ferelden hills.

Roslyn did her best not to focus on the idea that Solas would be joining. How they might find new and interesting ways to dance around each other awkwardly. But perhaps she was wrong, and simply expecting the worse. She was excited to be out in the field again, closing rifts, running away from her meetings with Josephine and her larger responsibilities. Actually helping people. Maybe it would help them find a new kind of friendship. One that didn’t make her feel like she needed a cold shower to shock her back to reality every ten minutes. 

Later that afternoon, before the dinner bell sounded and the last of the day’s work wound down for the evening, Roslyn set out to find the elf named Iwan. 

She’d been putting the meeting off, not knowing what she even wanted to say to him. All she knew was that, since hearing about Helena’s executions of those elves in Ostwick, she couldn’t stop thinking about how the elves here were treated. It was one thing to defend them when the abuse took place before her eyes, another to ensure that it didn’t happen behind closed doors. She had promised everyone her protection, but she knew better than most that some were lost between the cracks. 

She found out from casual inquiry that most of Skyhold’s elves stayed in one of the lower levels, in a large building set aside from the soldiers’ quarters. Set partly into the mountain on which Skyhold was built, it had access to the hot springs which supplied the cooks and wash basins for the entire fortress. It was large as well, managing to hold nearly the entire elven population, those who did not house with the mages or the servants who lived in the keep proper. Josephine had tried to explain to her the delegation a few times, but her mind had skipped over the details. She’d never been good with figures and calculations—as far as she was concerned, Josephine was a genius for managing to keep them all fed, let alone housed and clothed. 

Roslyn picked her way down the winding stair, trying not to focus too hard on what she was doing. Nerves clustered in the center of her chest, and it was all she could to nod politely at workers she passed, servants and agents hurrying up and down the large staircase cut into the mountain around her. 

_It will be fine_ , she told herself, grateful for the wolf’s rumbling comfort. It could sense her apprehension. _You’re just going to make sure they’re taken care of. That’s all._

She didn’t focus on the guilt she felt for what Helena had done. The guilt that she was somehow failing them. It made little sense, but the feeling dug nails into her heart.

The building sat on the eastern side of the mountain, and so the entrance was in shadow as she walked up. A few figures were milling out in front, all elves in various kinds of clothes—all of them in decent condition, she saw with a small amount of relief—most of them workers. 

She fought her apprehension as she remembered the days when she had worked as a servant in the Emerald Cove, approaching the others with caution, keeping her head and eyes down. 

She was only a few yards away when the first person spotted her. A man leaning on the side of the building, laughing at some shared joke. His eyes widened, but he didn’t straighten up at once. In fact, he seemed to grow wary, slouching back into the shadows as he smacked one of his friends on the arm and pointed to her. 

She cleared her throat. “Afternoon,” she called, drawing the others’ attentions. 

None of them replied for a moment. Then another woman, grey hair pinned back in a smart bun, answered, “Inquisitor.”

To her surprise, and relief, none of them bowed or inclined their heads. 

“I…was hoping to find a man named Iwan.” She stood there awkwardly, feeling like an ass. “He leads a work crew—”

“We know who he is,” the old woman interrupted, her large green eyes sharp and searching. “Everyone knows who he is, after what you did.”

The accusation was plain in her voice, and Roslyn felt a flush of heat color her neck. She didn’t know how to respond to that. “You don’t happen to know where he is, do you, serah?”

A smattering of murmurs greeted this. The man she’d seen first gave a short laugh. “ ‘Serah?’ Delia, did you hear that? You’re a ‘serah’ now.”

The old woman gave him a quick jab with her elbow, and scowled at Roslyn. “You don’t need to do that, Inquisitor.”

“I think I do,” she said, trying to keep her voice level, holding the old woman’s gaze. “I make it a habit to treat people I don’t know with respect. Until they prove unworthy of it, of course.”

A certain amount of frustration filtered into her unease. They clearly wanted nothing to do with her, and had no idea why she was here in the first place.

_Of course they don’t,_ she answered herself at once. _You’re not one of them. Why on earth should they treat you like you are?_

The elves stared at her, waiting. 

And then the old woman’s mouth twitched into a wry smile. “Smart of you. Aye, I know where he is. Come on, then.”

She turned without waiting, and entered the building. 

Roslyn forced herself to follow, meeting the curious and tense gazes of everyone lingering outside. The inside of the boarding house was loud and full. She fought her immediate discomfort at the noise—laughter, arguing, the gentle fiddling of an instrument somewhere, happy shrieks of children above her. She’d gotten used to having her own space. That damn room had spoiled her.

She took it all in as she stood in the doorway, the faces of more elves than she’d seen in her entire life, all in one place. The thought sat strangely in her throat.

“Bet it’s a bit different than your quarters up top.”

Roslyn turned to the old woman, who was watching her with a curiously tight expression. The fine lines of her white skin pulled taut, making her look severe and domineering. 

“Yes,” Roslyn said at once. There was no point in denying that, while the house was clean and well-kept, it was packed to the brim. “Sometimes I get lost in my own room, it’s so big.”

The old woman gave a short laugh and shook her head, walking forward. 

The expansive room was brightly lit, torches and candles flickering on every post and table. Windows lined the walls, telling her that come morning, this entire floor would be full of sunlight. The smell of spices, some of them familiar, some sharply foreign, drifted through the air, followed by tobacco and smoke and earthy, warm food—some kind of bread, she guessed. Roslyn’s eyes couldn’t focus on one thing out of it all, watching children play with puppies in the corner while a group of women watched over them from the side, knitting. There were circles of adults, some playing cards, some drinking, some throwing dice and bellowing at the outcome. The elderly seemed to gather as well, holding council in the center of the room while others listened intently to whatever they deigned to share with those with less life to their names. 

Roslyn felt as if she’d walked into another world. A world vastly different than her own. The Circle had been cold and barren, their community only forming once the templars forced them to defend themselves. She’d taken care to stay as much apart from the Rebellion as she could, spending only a scattering of weeks at Andoral’s Reach. And her childhood had been nothing short of isolation mixed with infrequent moments of abuse. 

Here, life seemed to hang in the very air, its connection warm and strong weaving around her like a skein of iron. Like an aura of its own, pulsing with motes of life fed by each and every person in the room. All of them separate, but belonging. Disparate parts of a whole.

She felt like an outsider looking in on a scene she could not join. 

Swallowing her discomfort, allowing the wolf to rise and walk with her, she moved after the old woman, winding their way through the large hall to the back where doors opened onto yet more rooms. Eyes followed her as she went, some of them wide with surprise. Most of them suspicious. Whispers trailed after her like wind-rustled leaves, a muted hush falling over the immediate people around her, only to redouble the moment she passed.

The old woman rapped on one of the open doors, poking her head inside. “You’ve got an auspicious guest, Iwan.”

Roslyn frowned as the old woman made to leave. “I didn’t catch your name.”

She gave her a shrewd smile. “I didn’t give it.” She inclined her head, almost sarcastically, and added, “Inquisitor.”

_Good start_ , she thought, stepping around the old woman as she left. Her eyes swept over the main room, seeing with a knowing dread that most of the elves were now watching her closely.

Roslyn took a deep breath and ducked into the adjacent room. 

Two people were seated at a small, worn table. One she recognized as Iwan, but the other woman was unfamiliar. 

Unfamiliar, but not entirely foreign.

Roslyn’s eyes widened as she felt the swell of magic brush against her aura—tasting of rich spice and bright, pale yellow, reminding her of the breathless exertion of dance, and the solitary sound of paper turning. 

The woman was leaned over Iwan, hands pressed against the man’s shoulder and ribs, frowning. 

Iwan, to his credit, looked vaguely uncomfortable as he met Roslyn’s gaze. “Inquisitor, I—”

“Please,” she said at once, stepping into the room and taking a spot against the wall, “I’m sorry for interrupting. I didn’t know.”

He scowled at the open door. “Delia didn’t give you a hard time, I hope.”

“No, no,” she said, watching the elven woman work. “She was more than accommodating.”

Roslyn could sense the Creation magic flowing from the woman’s steady hands, and knew at once that this mage was skilled. She’d spent enough time with Solas to see a master at work. 

The woman seemed to sense her attention and turned, dark, intelligent eyes sizing her up in one look. After a moment, she straightened, drawing her hands back from Iwan and letting her aura fade. “You’ve been neglecting your treatment, you stupid old man,” she said, her voice a high, pretty sound, reminding Roslyn of Duck’s bird trill. 

“And where should I have found another mage willing to help the likes of me?” Iwan said with a scowl. 

Roslyn recognized the familiarity in his voice, the same lilting accent, the same broad, handsome features. Both elves were lithe, with long, deep brown hair, their eyes similar shades of black. 

The woman’s gaze flickered with guilt, before she turned again to Roslyn. “You’re the one who painted a target on my cousin’s back, then?”

Before she could respond, Iwan rose to his feet and shooed the woman away. “Settle down, Cath.”

“Does she know—”

“I think she’s got other things on her mind,” Iwan said, giving Roslyn an uncomfortable glance. “She doesn’t mean anything by it, your worship.”

“I think she does,” Roslyn muttered, looking between the two of them. “I…can leave, if you need time to rest.”

“Old condition,” he said, wincing as he straightened. “Born with bad lungs. Cath’s been treating me as long as I can remember.”

Roslyn fought to keep the interest from her eyes.

“Not while I was in the Circle, Inquisitor,” Cath added, face hard, “obviously.”

Roslyn nodded, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. “Right. I understand. Please sit,” she added, trying to force a smile onto her face. “I couldn’t live with myself if I knew I was inconveniencing you any more.”

Neither of them moved for a moment, before Iwan eased back into his seat, Cath following with some reluctance. 

“I’ve been meaning to come sooner,” Roslyn began, a bit too quickly as her words all tumbled out of her lips. “To see how you were—after the promotion.”

Cath’s thin brow lifted, but Iwan cut her off with a raised hand. His expression hardened, pride glinting through his dark eyes, the same defiant pride she’d seen in him when he’d faced his overseer. “You didn’t need to come all the way down here just to check on me.” 

“I’m not unaware of the position I put you in. I—acted without thought. For that I’m sorry.”

He scowled. “I’m not.”

The room grew silent as Roslyn tried to think of something to say. Why in Maker’s name had she come here anyway? What could she have possibly hoped for this meeting?

“Why’d you do it?”

Roslyn met Iwan’s gaze. 

“Why’d you stop that arse? You didn’t have to. Maker knows, I’ve been hit harder by bigger shem than him in my time.”

Her jaw clenched as the backs of her ears burned. She had worn her hair up, as she’d taken to doing since becoming Inquisitor, but now, seated here with two elves who were staring at her expectantly, without sympathy, she felt as if she were claiming something which didn’t belong to her. 

“You would have preferred me to walk away after I saw you struck down?” She poured some of her frustration into her voice, drawing on the wolf’s presence to help her. “Turn a blind eye? _Accept_ it?”

Iwan’s eyes widened, but it was his cousin who answered. 

“Most do,” Cath muttered, tilting her head back, something regal in the way she held herself.

Iwan grimaced. “She just got here, your worship. Wasn’t present for your speech.”

Roslyn swallowed her discomfort and asked Cath, “Did you just get here today? With Derek Harper?”

She nodded. “Aye, and you couldn’t have chosen better than him to sing your praises across the Waking Sea.”

Roslyn grimaced. “He’s an old friend.”

“Still,” Cath mused, cocking her head in a distinctly birdlike manner, “he painted a pretty picture. That’s why I’m here, anyway. Had to see the fabled Herald of Andraste for myself.” Her eyes flicked to Roslyn’s ears, and held. “Thought he was lying about your blood.”

“Cath,” Iwan muttered, glaring at her, “keep your—”

“Thought you might have been like us, and this Inquisition of yours was trying to pass you off with a bit of human blood to soften the blow for the nobles in Orlais.” She paused, meeting Roslyn’s gaze again. “But you’re the real thing, aren’t you? Half-elf?”

Roslyn worked past the knot in her throat, guessing that this woman was testing her. Perhaps she’d gotten used to Hawke’s prodding over the past week, but she actually appreciated the glib quality of her tone. “So I was told. I never met my mother, and my father died when I still too young to ask who she was. I was shoved into servitude for the Trevelyans until my magic surfaced, so I didn’t have much opportunity to figure it out on my own. As you can see, my ears aren’t quite long enough to pass for a real elf, so I guessed the story I’d been fed was true.”

A pause. The noise from the main room sounded low and pleasant behind her. 

“You were a servant?” Iwan asked, brow furrowed in thought. 

Roslyn nodded. “And a pricking bag for my monster of a half sister.” Heart pounding in her throat, she turned, showed them both the pale, half-moon scars behind her ears. Strangely, she felt no shame, just a haunted kind of grief for the girl who’d been forced to endure such cruelty. 

“So no,” she continued, lowering her voice, “I could not have walked away. I spent eight years of my life watching other people walk away from me. Now that I can save others from that fate, I will.” She took a deep breath, and looked them both square in the eyes. Iwan’s face had gone hard with grim acknowledgement, while Cath’s had gone soft with pity. _It_ was _a test, then_. “And I will continue to ensure that I do everything in my power to ensure that no one else feels left behind in this Inquisition. Do you understand my meaning?”

It took him a moment, but he nodded. “Aye, I think I do, Inquisitor.”

“Know that you can come to me, if you feel like I’ve failed in this.”

He let out a soft laugh. “You’re joking. I think those shem up top would lose their minds if they saw the likes of me coming to speak to you.”

Roslyn arched her brow. “Trust me, I’ve taken care of that myself. You forget, I’m also a mage, in addition to being elf-blooded. Compared to me, you’d be a downright treat to some.” She smiled in truth at his awkward laugh. He seemed like a decent person, now that she had the opportunity to talk to him. “I mean it. If you think anyone in this Inquisition is treating you and your people wrong, I want to know about it. You’ve got more allies than you know.”

She pushed herself to her feet, still feeling uncomfortably hot and anxious in this house packed to the brim with elves. She’d claimed them as her responsibility. It was time she made good on that promise.

“And now I’ll leave you to your doctor.” She inclined her head toward Cath, who was still watching her with searching eyes. “I know a master when I see one. The Inquisition would welcome your skills, serah.”

“I—thank you, your worship.” Cath fingered the end of her long, thick brown braid. “I’ll consider it. You…seem to have attracted a number of good people. It speaks well of you that you’ve won their trust.”

Roslyn held her gaze for a moment, wondering at the discomfort in her eyes. “That’s very kind of you.” At the door, she paused, turning back to Iwan. “Do you have a last name I can give to my people up top, so you don’t run into trouble before you even find me?”

He grinned. “Surana, your worship. Iwan Surana.”

She nodded at them both one last time, and left. 

_All things considered,_ she thought with a grimace as soon as she was back in the open air, and the last of the searching looks were behind her, _that could have gone much worse._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Bethany Hawke. Bethany Hawke is everything. 
> 
> Also here begins my descent into OC hell (there are four new OCs I'm going to be introducing in this next arc I am so sorry but not really because I love them all with a fiery burning passion). I hope you're all okay with this web of shit getting more tangled!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who is commenting and reading. I got some weird hate on tumblr a few days ago that put me in a mini funk, but you guys are amazing and the second I remembered that there are a few supremely nice people who are also interested in this clusterfuck of a fic it made me feel so much better and grateful. All my love, babes <3


	18. Cracks in the Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Wrong Victory" by MS MR](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2dqyjcw6NAY&t=0s&index=18&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S)
> 
> *Updated with new content on 5/7/18*

Roslyn had thought she’d seen more than her fair share of insanity in the months since receiving the anchor. Corrupted templars, nightmare worlds in alternate timelines, a literal archdemon, one of the original magisters who had plunged her world into chaos thousands of years before her birth. 

But there was something intimately frightening about what she found in Crestwood. Something out of her childhood fears. Something simple, and horrifying. Corpses of the dead, reanimated by the fell energy of a rift under the lake, swarming over the hills in a shambling, aimless horde without a will to organize. 

The rain didn’t help, as they fought their way to a keep held by bandits who had thought to capitalize on the chaos. Cold, drenched, and covered in various bodily fluids preserved in the waters of a lake for nearly a decade along with the rest of the pale and bloated dead, her party made short work of the force, neutralizing the captain and his tagalong fighters in less than half an hour. Looking through the keep as they slipped into the side passage toward the dam where the locks to the lake were held, she thought the place might even make a decent place to settle, if they could clean it up. Bandits, she was starting to learn, were not an organized lot by nature, and none of them seemed capable of picking up a broom or a mop. 

The dam itself was impressive, reminding Roslyn uncomfortably of the walls off the coast of Ostwick—the famed barrier which had shielded the capital city for centuries and for which one of her father’s ancestors had won the Trevelyans the rule of Ostwick.

Any dark thoughts of her father’s family, however, were wiped clean the moment they entered the building where the locks were housed and came upon a pair of teenagers who were, unfortunately, in the midst of a rather awkward attempt at sex. 

“Nice,” Iron Bull said with a snort as the two scrambled for their clothes. 

“Wh-what’s the matter with you?” one of them asked, voice quavering as he took in Roslyn’s company and their disheveled, blood-soaked attire. “Why’re you barging in on us, then?”

Roslyn arched her brow, not knowing whether to laugh or throw them both out into the rain on their bare asses. “I hadn’t realized this tavern was off limits. You should have put a sock on the door knob, and we might have knocked first.”

“Oh-ho,” Hawke laughed, eyes going wide with glee, “did we interrupt a _tryst?_ I love a good tryst! Decent spot for it too, if wet and dusty gets you going.”

“How did you two even get in here?” Roslyn asked, curious in spite of herself. “We had it on good authority from the mayor that this tavern had been abandoned.” Looking around the dust covered furniture, smelling the potent mildew, it seemed to confirm the old man’s assumption. “This can’t be the most romantic spot for a tumble, surely.”

Behind her, Solas chuckled. 

She turned before she could stop herself and caught his smirk. “Perhaps its forbidden nature enhances the allure,” he said.

“Better this than the bandit keep,” Sera mused, digging through the barrels in the far corner of the room. “Wouldn’t one of them walking in on me with my bits hanging—ooh! There’s wine in here!”

Hawke rushed over to her at once, all thought of surreptitious lovers apparently forgotten. Bethany sighed wearily, though Roslyn caught a hint of fondness in her mouth.

The two teenagers, with all their clothes replaced, thankfully, huddled in front of Roslyn. “You won’t…tell anyone, will you?” The same boy spoke, while the other seemed mute in fear of Iron Bull’s imposing stature. “We’re not…supposed to be…you know.”

Something in Roslyn’s heart twisted as she saw their hands fumble for one another. “No,” she said, smiling slightly, “of course not. Though, I do think it’s mad you two snuck out to fuck in the middle of a storm while a bunch of walking dead are harrying your village.”

The talkative boy shrugged. “They’ve been like that for weeks now. What’re we supposed to do, stop living?”

Roslyn let out a sharp laugh. “A fair point. Still. You shouldn’t be wandering around in the dark. Head back to the keep and hang out there for a while. The bandits are all dead. Find one of my scouts and tell them you have my permission to take one of the rooms for the night to continue your…rendezvous.”

The boy looked skeptical. “And who are you then?”

Before she could answer, Iron Bull stepped forward and bent over the pair, who blanched. “Scram, kid. You heard the lady.”

Roslyn watched them go with a lingering smile. “Thanks for that. I’m not sure how Josephine would take the news that I was using my considerable power as Inquisitor to facilitate the budding urges of two young boys.”

Iron Bull nodded, looking wistfully over at the bottle of wine Sera and Hawke were now sharing. “Sure thing, boss. I’ll, ah, be right back.”

“How about we take a minute to breathe?” She shook her head. “Honestly,” she said to Solas, “you’d think these hardened warriors I’ve surrounded myself with are less use than a rusty sword.”

“A rusty sword would not be distracted by old wine,” Solas said thoughtfully, “however, it is just as likely to leave you with a questionable illness if one were to knick one’s finger on its broken edge.”

“I’d be worried, if I didn’t think those three getting drunk might actually increase their prowess in a fight.”

Solas chuckled. “Let us not press that theory too far. I don’t fancy one of Sera’s arrows finding me instead of a walking corpse.” He paused, and gave her a sly smile. “Pity she was not present to share a joke about my sense of humor sharing qualities with that of a walking corpse.”

Roslyn stared at him, taken aback by his casual tone. He’d been nothing but polite all the way here, distant, perhaps. But no more than usual since she had become Inquisitor. If she wasn’t imagining things, she might even say he was…happy. 

He held her gaze, eyes gone searching. “That was kind, to keep their secret. I would not have guessed you were a romantic.”

Heat flushed up her chest. She blinked, and looked away. “I’m not. But far be it for me to stand in the way of true love.”

She felt his gaze on her cheek as she turned. “Come on, you lot,” she called, brushing aside the wolf as it rose to sniff at her sudden flurry of pain—he didn’t think she was a romantic, did he? _And how would he know either way? He didn’t stick around long enough to learn_. “We don’t have—”

A thud shook the tavern as a few of the loose shutters burst open. Roslyn braced herself against the wall as more quick, booming thuds rent the air. Each one sent a spike of dread into her gut, and she moved without thought to the door, realizing what it must be. Recognizing the sound of heavy flapping. Voices raised in alarm behind her, but she needed to see it for herself before she could speak.

The rain smacked cold against her face as she peered up into the dark sky. More thuds of air, great sweeping buffets of wind nearly made her stumble back.

And then a piercing shriek echoed over the rain, punctuated by a crack of thunder. 

A huge, dark shape moved over the wall, down across the lake, skimming the water with its barbed wings. 

A dragon. 

But not the one which had plagued her thoughts for nearly five months. 

Its scales caught a brief flash of lightning, gleaming purple and orange against the grey clouds. Electricity rippled from its mouth as it let out another shrieking cry. The horns were different, curling into a mantle almost like Iron Bull’s over its head. Not spiraling over its neck. The snout was streamlined, thinner, and not ragged with skin hanging off to reveal its yellowed teeth. 

There was no hum in the air of red lyrium. 

Roslyn stared, searching for some sign of red or black, forcing herself to admit that it was not the archdemon. It was just a dragon. The thought that it was _only_ a dragon almost made her laugh. That she could be relieved to see anything so terrifying was stark-raving mad. 

A loud whistle behind her nearly made her jump, but she forced herself not to turn at Iron Bull’s voice. “ _Ebran ataashi_.” He laughed and joined her at the low wall of the dam. “Well, fuck. This place just got interesting.”

She swallowed back her nerves. _Just a dragon. Not an archdemon. One thing at a time._ “Only you could think walking corpses were uninteresting, Bull. Right,” she turned from his wide grin, catching the same hungry gleam in Hawke’s eyes, “let’s get moving.”

“Oh, come on,” Hawke whined, staring after the dragon with a look that might have been lustful, “damn this undead crap. I want to fight the _dragon_.”

“Go ahead, then,” Roslyn snapped, shouldering past him and Sera. “But don’t expect me to save you when it shoots lightning up your ass.”

“Best case scenario, if you ask me!”

She felt Solas’s stare follow her as she went for the unlocking mechanism, throwing her shoulder into it and pushing before anyone else could offer to help. 

_One thing at a time._

 

~  ✧ ~

 

The Deep Roads reminded Roslyn of the dark, moldy cellars under Aiden’s Tower. She’d avoided the place on instinct, making excuses as to why she could not fetch potion ingredients or alchemy reagents. Her instructors had thought she was too dull to be interested in the “finer” magical arts, and she’d been more than happy to go no nearer the rooms where the Tranquil did their enchanting at the base of the tower, but really, she couldn’t bear to be under the earth for longer than a few minutes.

There was something oppressive about knowing hundreds of feet of earth separated her from the open air. That there was nowhere to run or breathe, if things became too difficult to manage. 

The slow descent into this branch of the Deep Roads tested every nerve she had. Objectively, she could appreciate the architecture. Once they had moved past the labyrinthine caves of dripping sludge and flickering shadows, the prowess of the dwarves became apparent. The walls gleamed, perfectly carved to rise nearly fifty feet above her head. Runes glinted as they caught the light, reflecting metallic red or silver. Pillars of polished onyx and drakestone sat in the center of wide roads, and doors inlaid with mechanical gears and locking mechanisms far more advanced than those she had mastered in her Circle hinted at their secret hoards. 

But she had a hard time appreciating the grandeur as she fought the urge to turn and flee with every step. 

A flicker of something caught at her attention, and she hesitated with a frown. The impression of the demons further on in the Deep Roads, and the rift she could feel pulsing along with her anchor, made it hard to piece out what it was, but she thought she heard—voices. Ethereal and soft. Whispering. Her mark itched, and the wolf rose to follow her attention. The feeling reminded her of something, some memory. Of…veilfire, and a walk through fields overgrown with wildflowers. 

An elven artifact. 

She turned, about to alert Solas, when a shuddering roar spread through the halls. The anchor reacted at once, spilling green sparks onto the floor. A rush of rage, pure and undiluted, ripped through her, and she tensed. 

“I think we found our demon,” she muttered, drawing her sword and nodding toward a corridor ahead where, sure enough, she saw green and orange light warring for dominance on the marble floors. 

The fight didn’t last long. The rift where the demon had been pulled through was weaker than she’d expected to find, only throwing a few lesser shades at them when she tried to close it. The silence after the fighting cast a strange caution over them all, as Hawke and Sera began to loot the surrounding dwarven ruins for something valuable. Echoes rang through the empty halls, giving her the impression that people were hiding around corners, and that everything she did was being watched. 

Solas crouched down next to the still-burning remains of the rage demon, frowning. 

“Something wrong?” she asked, looking over the wreckage. 

He pushed aside some shards of broken glass, unearthing a line of dark paint. He traced the line with his finger, brow creasing further. “I don’t believe this rift occurred by chance.”

“What do you mean?”

Bethany, on the other side of Solas, was nodding, though her expression was troubled. “Look at these spurs of rock,” she gestured to a spike beside her, and another a few feet to her left. “They look—,” she broke off, recognition flashing through her brown eyes, “I mean, they look like someone was trying to reinforce a summoning circle.”

Roslyn’s stomach dropped. “You mean someone opened this rift intentionally?”

Solas rose and paced around her, brushing aside more debris and demon refuse to reveal a perfectly round pair of circles, one inside the other. Symbols were etched between the double lines, some Roslyn could vaguely recognize from her sparse education, but most were entirely foreign to her. 

“Andraste’s mercy,” Bethany breathed, kneeling down to stare at the symbols. “I’ve seen these before.”

“Kirkwall.”

Roslyn turned to find Hawke staring at the summoning circle, no humor in his hard expression. 

“Once you’ve seen one demon summoning circle, you’ve seen them all,” he continued, crossing his blood and ichor slashed arms over his chest. His tattoos seemed to darken as his muscles flexed. “This one looks professional, if you ask me.”

“So what are we dealing with?” Roslyn asked. “Friends of yours came down south to summon a demon and raise a bunch of dead? Why?”

Bethany looked troubled, but Hawke laughed. “Why does anyone do anything?” he said. “Maybe they were bored, or scared, or following someone else’s orders. The world is full of great excuses, Inquisitor, and even better justifications.”

He turned without another word, rejoining Sera where she was rifling through what looked like a box of rusted mail shirts. 

“We should look for some signs of who did this,” she murmured, noting Solas’s cold stare. Someone had pulled a spirit through by force, corrupting it into the thing of rage and malice they’d fought. He was clearly upset. “They might be connected to the Wardens, somehow.”

He nodded, but said nothing as he walked away to search the surrounding area. 

“Inquisitor?”

She turned from watching Solas, feeling somewhat foolish as she saw Bethany staring. 

“My brother is right that this is…precise work.” Her lips pursed. “I saw my share of mages turn to this kind of madness in Kirkwall. These bindings,” she pointed to the spurs of rock, “were meant to hold a powerful demon. I think whoever did this must have wanted something from it.”

“Power?”

Bethany hummed in thought, fiddling with a piece of hair which had escaped from her bun. “Maybe. But this kind of binding isn’t necessarily rooted in extraction. This,” she tapped a symbol with the toe of her boot, “seems closer to neutralization or warding than paralysis. Usually you’d want the latter, if you needed to draw power from an unwilling subject.”

Roslyn’s brow arched. “You know quite a lot about this.”

A cutting smile pulled at her lips, and for a moment, Roslyn could see the similarity to Hawke in her expression. “The Gallows afforded me a world class education. And what I didn’t learn there, I picked up running around with him,” she nodded to her brother, begrudging affection in her eyes, though it seemed pained, “and his friends. Every rumor you heard about Kirkwall was true, in some fashion. There was a while there where it seemed as if abominations and demons were literally raining down on our heads.”

“The one about him seducing a dragon can’t be true, though,” Roslyn muttered, grinning.

Bethany let out a peel of laughter. “Oh, no, it is. It didn’t _work_ , but—”

“Why are you laughing?” Hawke called at once. “Why are _you_ smiling?” He pointed at Roslyn. 

“You’ve been on your own too long, brother,” Bethany said through more laughter, shooting Roslyn a shared look of commiseration before she moved off to join Solas. “Your ego needs deflating.”

Roslyn’s smile dimmed after a while, when the claustrophobia of the Deep Roads settled once more over her shoulders. She fought an urge to shiver, looking behind herself once—unable to shake the feeling that she was being watched. 

Clenching her jaw, she put it out of her mind. 

 

~  ✧ ~

 

The crystalline hills surrounding Crestwood held an austere beauty in the sunlight. The sight was so different from the strange darkness of the night before that Roslyn had a hard time thinking of it as the same place. Though, she conceded, that probably had more to do with the fact that there were no more demons and undead prowling the rain-soaked hills and coming up from the churning lake.

They’d come out of the Deep Roads an hour before sunrise, only to return to the village to tell them they’d stopped the source of the rising dead. The dead who had been sentenced to a painful, slow death ten years ago in the Fifth Blight.

She exhaled as her anger resurfaced, at the memory of learning that the mayor had been behind the quarantine, that he had knowingly sentenced his own people to die because it was easier than trying to fight for another solution. The shambling moans of the corpses as they dragged themselves up dank and dripping caverns flickering with pale green light crowded her thoughts. Their voices had echoed through the wide halls of the Deep Roads, curling around her mind like the wet talons of some great, lethargic beast.

At least the man had fled. She might have killed him straight off if she’d returned to the surface to confront him with the evidence of his crimes. She’d been so tired and furious after an entire day of fighting off undead and demons and bandits, she might have just snapped.

Of course, she was still just as tired, but the sun was out and the lilac-covered mountains made her anger less sharp. 

She sat atop a hill overlooking the keep they’d managed to secure. A sturdy castle, with enough room to set up a decent outpost for the Inquisition this far north into Ferelden. She grinned at the idea of telling Alistair that they’d taken another one of his abandoned fortresses. One of these days he might put his foot down and make them ask first.

It was odd, but part of her was grateful for the opportunity to be out on the road again. She missed Skyhold and the sense of comfort she’d built after living there for only a few months, but this—traipsing up and down the countryside, closing rifts and helping people—was easy. Dealing with nobles and troop estimates, building an organization from almost the ground-up—that was beyond her. She’d started to chafe at being around so many people again. In the clear air, with room to breathe, she could feel herself settling into something which resembled calm. She just hoped the itch and urge at the base of her spine would work itself out in time. Sitting cooped up in a castle with nothing to do but glorified paperwork had started to drive her mad.

Out here in the wilds she was just the Herald again, not the Inquisitor.

_Maker_ , she thought with a frown, giving herself a little shake, _that’s a terrifying thought_.

“Any room on that vista for one more?”

She kept her gaze forward as Hawke crested the hill and slumped to the ground next to her without waiting for her permission. He was still dirty from the previous night’s effort, ichor smeared across his armor and hair stuck to the left side of his face with what might have been mud or something less pleasant. She probably looked just as ragged—they’d only resurfaced a few hours ago to see the first rays of the sun rise up over the lake, now still and serene. It had taken most of the morning to ensure the villagers were safe, and to run off the last of the bandits. A few had gone to ground in the hills to the east, but they could be dealt with later. The more pressing concern was the dragon they’d seen last night.

Her immediate spike of fear, the thudding dread that had made her arms shake and her knees nearly buckle as it crossed the dam—she’d been transported. Its wings had spread across the night sky, blocking out the dim light from the southern moon. 

“People generally go off on their own to get air so that they can be alone, you know,” she said, frown deepening as he jostled her knees with his staff—a sturdy iron rod embellished with gold, holding a large red jewel at the top and wicked looking blade at the bottom. It looked far too nice for anyone as rough as Hawke. She wondered what poor idiot he’d stolen it from.

“Yes, but I know the difference between needing air and _brooding_ , Inquisitor.” He nudged her with his elbow, taking a swig from a leather water-skin. “Us hero types learn to spot the distant stare, the heavy mantle that falls upon one’s shoulders with the weight of the world we’ve been tasked to protect.”

She declined his offer of the water-skin with a shake of her head, having already learned that his water tasted oddly like brandy. “You’re including yourself in this assessment?”

“Of course.”

“Brooding. Interesting. I’d have gone with lazing about and antagonizing anyone within a ten mile-radius.”

“I am a many-layered man of mystery,” he said with a sigh, lying back against the hill and crossing his arms under his head. “Seriously, why are you upset? You saved the day. Rifts closed, demons slayed, castle taken—you had a marvelous night. Better than most of mine. There was a suspicious lack of wine and orgies, but not all of us are perfect.”

Roslyn shot him a hard look, but he’d closed his eyes, seemingly content to bask in the morning sunlight. “I find it very ironic that you’re the one berating me for my attitude.”

“And why is that?” he asked pleasantly.

“Spoken more than a sentence to your sister since we left Skyhold?”

His face went tense, the mere mention of his sister making him flinch. But then his features smoothed and he shrugged. “I don’t really see how that’s your business.” He opened one eye at her, grinning. “Sorry, I don’t really see how that’s any of your business, _your worship_.”

Roslyn looked away, staring out across the swaying fields of lavender and wheat. In the far distance, the mountains that bordered the Waking Sea were capped with white snow. 

And beyond that, lay Ostwick.

“Like it or not,” she said, “you’re a member of the Inquisition now—at least in spirit. Having a loud and obnoxious problem who can’t deal with his family drama makes it my business.”

Hawke snorted. “I’m touched that you’re so concerned for my welfare. Careful, or I might think you’re growing fond of me.”

She forced herself not to grin. It was hard, as she might have liked him quite a bit were she not forced to tug on his leash every few days.

“You just save your ‘rules’ face for Skyhold then?” he asked.

“My ‘rules’ face?”

He grunted and sat up, leaning forward to catch her eye. “I’m intrigued by you, Inquisitor.”

“I suppose you’re going to tell me why,” she said dryly.

“Let me tell you why,” he continued. “Sometimes I think you’re just as much fun as dour-faced, noodle-haired Rutherford. Your stick might not be as tall and pointy but it still seems firmly lodged up your ass just the same. ‘No feet on my table. Stop fighting my men. Don’t antagonize my advisors.’ In other words, entirely _uninteresting_.”

She waited for him to continue, but he just stared at her. Finally, she turned and met his gaze. Beneath the confident swagger and challenge, there was something like a question in his eyes. She knew there was some reason he’d sought her out rather than staying back at the fortress with the Chargers and Sera. True, he might just be trying to avoid his sister. He’d spent quite a lot of time near her while they traveled, most likely to dissuade Bethany from catching him alone. Roslyn had come to believe that he also enjoyed testing her patience.

“The other times?” she prompted, curious in spite of herself. There was still that small part of her that searched for the hero she’d read about and idolized all those years as she poured over Varric’s book. The hero she caught flashes of every now and again in those rare moments when he stopped talking.

An even smaller part wondered if she really was as uptight as he claimed.

He just smiled, his eyes roving over her face and settling on her lips in an obvious suggestion.

_Oh, for fuck’s sake._

She was spared the necessity of ending the conversation herself when Iron Bull called, “Hey, boss, you might want to come hear this!”

Glancing down the hill, she saw him standing with Solas in front of a group of villagers, some of whom she recognized from last night’s fighting. Her heart lurched slightly to see Solas watching her and Hawke, eyes cool, but focused.

She rose to her feet, chastising herself for giving that guilt a moment’s thought. What did it matter if she was talking to Hawke alone? There was nothing between them apart from annoyance and frustration. Solas was supposed to be her friend. She was being ridiculous. Again. She was the fucking Inquisitor, not some teenager sneaking into a hidden corner to fool around with the wrong boy.

Her chest constricted, and all thought of Hawke and Solas vanished.

The only time she’d been able to sneak around with a boy had been in the Circle, and he’d been turned Tranquil for it.

Roslyn didn’t turn to see if Hawke was following, but made her way down the field. The group had congregated on the side of the road outside Caer Bronach. She kept her eyes on Iron Bull, trying to shrug off the fatigue and weariness of the previous night. “Something interesting, Bull?”

The qunari motioned toward one of the villagers, a tall woman with stringy blonde hair. “Nessa thinks there might be a Grey Warden hiding in the caves a few miles east of here.”

Her brow lifted. “Really? What makes you say that?”

Nessa swallowed, her eyes going wide as she stared down at Roslyn. “I—well, your worship, he was helping us before you arrived. Minute that rift opened up in the lake and the bandits started killing people on the road, he fought some of ‘em off. Gathered up some of the fighters and told us how to keep ‘em from coming back.”

“And he told you he was a Grey Warden?”

“Not exactly, your worship, but he had a crest with him that looked like wings and a griffin. Saw him polishing it once.”

Iron Bull crossed his arms, drawing a startled yelp from one of the villagers. “He picked up and left when he heard us coming? That’s odd.”

“Not if the organization is truly in hiding,” Solas mused. “Perhaps this Warden doesn’t want to be found.”

“He—he said he was tracking some of ‘em down,” Nessa added, hands trembling as she looked up at Iron Bull and then to Solas, as if she couldn’t decide which one made her more uncomfortable. “He’d come back once we was settled.”

“Do you know where he went?” Roslyn asked.

“No, your worship. I’m sorry. I don’t think he’s alone though. One of the farmer’s said he saw a pair of strangers coming in a few days before the rift opened up in the lake. May be there’s more than just him.”

“All right.” Roslyn sighed and gave the woman a smile. “Thank you for bringing this to me.”

Nessa nodded vigorously, shooing away the other villagers on her way back to Crestwood.

“I’d say we could track him,” Iron Bull said with a grimace, “but all that rain’s gonna make it hard to pick up a trail. Might be better to wait until he comes back.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Solas asked with an arched brow. “We might lose the opportunity entirely.”

Roslyn shook her head. “It could be weeks until he comes back. We don’t have that kind of time.” She didn’t turn as Hawke stepped up next to her. “I say we finish settling into Caer Bronach, then head east and see if we can’t pick up a scent. I have some ravens I need to send with Charter—” She turned with a start to find the elf standing quietly behind her. “Maker, were you trying to scare me?”

“I could wear a bell, Inquisitor,” she said with a straight face.

“Don’t tease, Charter,” Roslyn said with a laugh.

While she might be more fond of Harding, who was currently gathering a team to travel south to survey the edge of the Korcari Wilds for rifts, the elf had proven herself a masterful lead scout—and an uncanny shadow.

Stepping away from Hawke, who seemed to have no concept of personal space, Roslyn said, “The council will want to know that we’ve secured a new keep, and I suppose I should inform the king that, once again, I’ve solved one of his problems for him.”

“Make him pay you,” Hawke said with a wink. “Worked for me in Kirkwall.”

“Excellent advice as always, Hawke. What would I do without you?” she said dryly, not bothering to hide her grin as Iron Bull laughed. She met Solas’s gaze, and could have sworn she saw approval in the slight twist of his mouth. “Do you have a moment?”

His eyes widened, but he nodded, waiting as she told Charter to meet her in the rooms she’d taken for the staging of Caer Bronach. She led him back down to the fortress, making sure they were out of earshot of the rest of their curious group before she said, “I felt another one of your artifacts last night.”

He jerked to a stop as his expression froze. “My artifacts?”

Roslyn noted with surprise the tension in his body. “The elven artifact you led me to in the ruin outside Redcliffe? I felt another in the Deep Roads.”

“Ah,” he said after a beat, relaxing. “Forgive me, I am overtired from the night’s exertions. You sensed an artifact that could strengthen the Veil?”

She studied him, confused by the hardness still lingering around his eyes. _Odd_. “I think so. It certainly felt similar. Which makes me wonder why it was sitting in a forgotten section of the Deep Roads. You said they were used by the ancient elves, right?”

“Yes.” A hard note crept into his voice, a deep, brittle sadness that flashed in his eyes. “Though, I would not be surprised if it had been looted and collected by the dwarves after the fall of Elvhenan.”

“I’m sorry,” she said lamely, feeling as if she should offer some consolation.

His brow furrowed.

“You and Adi talk about Elvhenan so much—it must have been a magnificent place. I’m just sorry that it was lost.”

He watched her for a long time, expression unreadable. “Many things were lost.” He seemed to pull himself out of whatever thoughts had claimed him and said more firmly, “Thank you for telling me. It would be wise to activate it to prevent further tears in the Veil. I think these people would appreciate some peace, after all that they’ve been through.”

“That was my thought. Hopefully this warden doesn’t prove too difficult to find. We can go down later tonight after the others have settled in.”

“You want me to come with you?”

She arched a brow at him as she turned back to the fortress. “You dragged me along last time. Turnabout is fair play, Solas.”

Roslyn bit back her smile at the look on his face, the beginnings of a grin and that damn crinkle at the corner of his eyes that made her heart clench. _One of these days_ , she told herself as she climbed up the main ramp into the keep, _I might be able to see that look and not feel the need to throw myself into the nearest body of cold water_.


	19. Rule to Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Good Mistake" by Mr Little Jeans](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-_2TR3p7Qkk&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&t=0s&index=19)

An arrow slammed into the red templar in front of Roslyn, sending a spurt of cloying blood into the air. She pulled back, severing the templar’s head from its neck for good measure as she dodged the spray of blood.

“Thank you, Sera,” she called over her shoulder, shooting a quick glance across the field to ensure that the last of the corrupted knights had been killed.

“No problem, Inquisitor,” the elf answered, skipping at the edges of her vision, presumably to gather her arrows from the twisted corpses riddled with growths of red lyrium. “Skewering red salmons in their cans is good work, yeah?”

Roslyn wiped her brow, a trickle of sweat falling between her eyes. It was starting to warm up considerably with the sun directly over her head. Spring was sliding quickly into summer. She should have left her jacket back at Caer Bronach.

“How many did you count?” Roslyn asked Solas, turning to find him only a few paces away from her with his staff already secured on his back.

“Seventeen,” he murmured, troubled.

She nodded, frowned. “It’s the largest group we’ve seen since Haven.”

They’d come upon the red templars by accident. Rocky had nearly blown the lot of them up when one wandered out of a copse of trees to his right while he was fiddling with one of his explosives. Lucky he’d been lagging behind the rest of the Chargers, or this fight would have gone much worse. 

Red templars in the hills of Crestwood. Summoning circles raising the dead. Grey Wardens. It was nice of them to all congregate in the same place. Made her job much easier.

“Looks like they’ve got a camp up here, boss,” Iron Bull called from the ridge above them.

Roslyn dragged her eyes away from the red templar’s body, catching Solas’s gaze. She knew what he was thinking. If the red templars had been able to come this far without the Inquisition learning of their presence, Maker only knew where else they might have spread.

“No sign of Venatori,” she murmured as he fell into step beside her. “That’s something.”

“Do you think they might have traveled west from Therinfal Redoubt?”

She frowned, unable to help the spike of unease that flowed down her spine at the thought of wandering bands of corrupted templars. The people of Ferelden had dealt with enough the past year, the past decade. They deserved a break, surely. The wolf rose and brushed against her mind, trying to soothe her racing heart. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Solas watched her as they rounded the small bend in rock. Iron Bull, Hawke, and Bethany stood in the middle of a sundered clearing. Tents had been torn and equipment strewn about in the chaos of the fight. The Chargers were disposing of bodies on the lower level, and Sera was, presumably, somewhere close-by.

Roslyn tensed as a faint brush of unfamiliar energy slid past her aura. It flecked over her cheeks, humming as it grew stronger. She slowed, noting that Solas had stopped dead behind her, staring intently over her shoulder into the mouth of a large cave.

“Are you all right?” she asked, letting her voice drop. His face was tense, brow furrowed and eyes unfocused.

“Yes,” he finally said, not looking at her. He looked almost pained. “The energy from that cave is palpable, even from here.”

She nodded. “The Veil is thin, but solid. It feels like—liquid.” She let the sensation wash over her skin. “It’s quite nice, actually.”

He looked at her, eyes bright. For a moment, she thought he might say something else, but Sera burst up the incline behind them, scowling and clipping Solas on the shoulder with her bow before he could.

“This place gives me the fucking creeps,” she muttered under her breath, fiddling with the grip of her bow and glancing about, presumably for something to shoot. “Like I just got dunked in a bowl of snot.”

Roslyn looked down, unable to hide her smile as Solas’s expression soured.

“Not a phrase I would use to describe the feeling,” he said, dropping his voice so Sera wouldn’t hear him. They’d gotten along as well as Roslyn had expected they would—which was, of course, not at all. Sera hadn’t shot him yet, which put him up on Roslyn, at least.

“Not everyone appreciates the finer subtleties of the Veil’s influence,” she said, trying her best to imitate the steady lilt of his voice.

“Apparently,” he said, arching his brow. “Although there are some who come around eventually, in their own stubborn way, after much difficulty.”

She looked at him in surprise, but the frustration at his pointed comment faded as she caught sight of the corner of his mouth, twisted up in a self-satisfied smirk. A sharp laugh burst from her lips. “You’re such an ass.”

“So I have been told,” he mused, glancing at her sideways. “Many times. By a woman not unlike yourself, in fact.”

“Mm,” she half-laughed, unable to help herself, “she sounds smart. Someone should put her in charge of something ridiculous. Like a holy crusade.”

He chuckled, and heat flushed over her neck. _Easy_ , she chastised herself. _Just friends. No blushing._

Iron Bull looked up as they approached, taking in her expression before his gaze slid pointedly to Solas.

Roslyn glared at him, and he seemed to take her silent cue to piss off. His face was expressionless, but she didn’t miss the gleam of interest in his eye as he gestured toward a pile of papers stacked haphazardly on an overturned crate. “Missives and orders from our man, Samson. Looks like they were searching for something in the hills.”

She frowned and picked up one of the papers, squinting at nearly illegible scribbling. 

> — _nothing here to find. Wait for—join us. Try our luck—meet up further south_ —

The rest was entirely unreadable.

“There might be something in here we can glean,” she said, “although I think it would take a pair of keener eyes to read this chicken scratch. We’ll take it back for Charter. Maybe one of her people can make something of it.” She glanced up to see Hawke staring down at a fallen templar, expression bereft of his usual roguish gleam.

He seemed to feel her gaze, and said without turning, “The last time I saw someone with this much red lyrium coming out of their face, my city had just imploded.”

“Don’t you mean _ex-_ ploded?” Iron Bull asked with a frown. “Thought a mage went berserk and decided to level the chantry before the knight commander retaliated?”

“No, you’re right,” Hawke said sharply, sarcasm honing the edge of his voice, “it was _definitely_ that simple.” He stepped back and met Roslyn’s gaze before pushing past her. “I’m gonna make sure no one’s sneaking up on our asses.”

Bethany, who had been similarly fixated on the templar in front of her, looked up with a frown. She watched her brother leave, eyes tight with conflict.

“I can see how it might be distressing,” Roslyn said after a moment, feeling rather awkward. “Varric told me you’d cleared out the city of red lyrium.”

“As much as we could.” Her warm eyes grew dark with memory as she shook her head. “I’m more concerned with how these things are growing on the surface.” She gestured to the spike of lyrium that speared out of the rock at the back of the camp. “The only place I’ve seen this kind of spread is at the Gallows, and that was after Meredith turned into a statue of it herself. This…looks more natural.”

It was smaller than the ones in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and even the growths in the Hinterlands, but it made Roslyn’s skin crawl just the same. “You think they’re…fusing it with the other stone, somehow?”

Solas stepped forward, keeping a safe distance as he examined it. “I agree with Mistress Hawke. Perhaps the stone grows organically, and the templars are seeding it somehow.”

_Like veins,_ she thought, remembering the web of red lyrium she’d seen underneath the castle in Redcliffe.

“It’s stone,” Iron Bull said roughly. “It doesn’t _grow_. It’s not a fucking plant.”

“It’s lyrium, Bull,” Roslyn said, patting him on the arm. “No one really knows how it works.”

He frowned, as if the idea where deeply troubling. “Why do you idiots keep using it, then?”

She grimaced, conceding that he had a point.

“Power justifies ignorance,” Solas said darkly, turning back to them with a distant expression. “No matter the source, or the lack of understanding, most will accept whatever means for the power to see their will done, however vile.”

Roslyn looked over her shoulder on the pretense of searching for Hawke, unease crawling into the back of her mind. She tried not to let her thoughts turn to the wolf, sitting in peace somewhere inside her chest. It was easy for Solas to claim that power without the full knowledge of its origins was inherently dangerous. As far as she knew, _he’d_ never felt powerless enough to sacrifice understanding. Sometimes, you didn’t have a choice.

“Bull,” she asked instead of focusing on her thoughts, “can you send Skinner back to Caer Bronach for more scouts?”

He nodded, and she headed back down the incline for Hawke. With her luck, he’d run off to fight that damn dragon on his own. But she found him sitting on a ledge, chewing on a sprig of grass and staring with focused eyes at a point off in the east.

“That bean pole, Nessa, said there were two wardens skulking around here, right?” he asked before she could speak.

Roslyn frowned. “Yes.”

He pointed at a cleft in a large rock a mile or so down the road. “I just saw two heavily armed people walk briskly into that hole.”

She followed his gaze. “Were you going to tell anyone?”

He gave her a grin, the shadows gone from his eyes and replaced with a gleaming tease. “Didn’t want to interrupt the looting.”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes and turned back to gather the rest of her party. Just in case they were about to ambush two unsuspecting farmers, she told the Chargers to remain at the red templar camp to wait for the rest of their scouts. Iron Bull followed her, along with Sera, Solas, Bethany, and Hawke, who had tried to ask Bethany to remain with the Chargers, only to be silenced by a look that made even Roslyn want to shrink out of sight.

The more time she spent with the younger Hawke, the more she was starting to like her. She made a point to keep her around, if only because she might make the famed Champion of Kirkwall piss himself one of these days, and she didn’t want to miss the fun.

They came upon a hidden doorway tucked deep into the hills, the sigil of the bandits that had taken the keep brandished on a plank of wood outside the hideout. She drew her sword, indicating to the others that they should be ready in case they were about to walk into a hornets’ nest.

At the end of a long, curving tunnel, Roslyn pushed open a door, peering into a circular cavern that flickered with candlelight. She couldn’t make out how large it was, but about twenty feet in front of her, a man stood hunched over a table covered in what looked from this distance to be maps. He didn’t seem to notice her as she edged inside, pulling on his long black beard with a severe frown cut into his aged face.

She was about to call out to him, letting her magic rise just in case he tried to attack her, when something sharp pressed into her side.

Roslyn froze as a calm, feminine voice said, “Now, stay very still, and you might just walk out of this cave alive.”

For a moment, all Roslyn could do was marvel at the fact that whoever was currently poised to disembowel her had almost literally appeared out of thin air.

But then the quick draw of a bowstring broke the silence. The swell of thick, sweet magic broke against her aura, and she came back to herself—Sera and Hawke clearly didn’t care that she was about two seconds from being gutted in front of them. Almost at the same time, her wolf rose and bristled, and the anchor sparked under her glove.

“Everyone else can put down their weapons,” the woman continued, her voice coming from somewhere near Roslyn’s left elbow, “or the girl gets the sharp end of my dagger.”

“Not to question the woman currently threatening my life,” Roslyn said, eyes flashing to the man still standing at the table, apparently unbothered by what was going on near the mouth of the cave, “but I’m not entirely sure your dagger would stop me if I wished you and your friend harm.”

“Maybe,” the woman mused, voice calm, and Roslyn thought she sounded rather cultured, though her accent was unfamiliar, “but the paralytic coated on my dagger might slow you down long enough for the poison to enter your bloodstream.”

_Ah._

“I’d listen to her, lass,” the man called, finally looking up to run a cursory glance over her and her party. “I’m not sure your spleen is worth it.”

“Is yours, prick?” Sera muttered.

“Okay,” Roslyn said quickly, trying her best not to move. “We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot. We’re looking for the man who’s been helping the villagers in Crestwood.”

“Aye, that’d be me.” He straightened and walked around the side of his table, one hand going casually to the sword at his waist.

“Why are you interested?” the woman behind her asked.

Roslyn kept her gaze on the old man, forcing herself not to turn and see whose dagger was digging into her armor. “The Inquisition has some questions for him.”

He laughed, the sound harsh. “Oh really? Where’s your proof, girl?”

She took a deep breath and murmured, “I’d be happy to show you, but that requires me moving my hand. I’d like your word that you won’t mistake my attempt to take off my glove for foul play.”

The woman said nothing, which Roslyn took to be an unspoken agreement. She brought her left hand to her mouth, tugging her glove off slowly with her teeth and letting it fall to the ground. The green glow of the anchor illuminated the cave, throwing light against the protrusions of rock and reflecting off a small pool far back in the darkness.

“Shit,” the man cursed, jerking back when the light hit him.

“That proof enough, or would you like me to close a rift in front of you?”

The man frowned, eyes darting to where she presumed the woman was standing behind her. “So. You’re the Inquisitor, then.”

“I hope so, or there’s going to be some very angry people in pink robes waiting for me when I get back to my castle.”

“What is the Inquisitor doing sneaking around in a cave?” the woman asked, still holding her dagger firm.

“I’m a hands-on kind of woman.”

A quickly concealed cough echoed behind her, and she knew Hawke had tried to cover a laugh.

Another moment of silence, and Roslyn said, “The Inquisition means you no harm. I swear on my life. We just want to talk.”

The man sighed, still scowling at her hand as if worried it might explode at any moment. But then he nodded. “Right. Talk, then.”

“That promise of safety has to go both ways, friend. A dagger at my back doesn’t exactly convey _trust_.”

“That’s the point,” the woman murmured.

Roslyn’s jaw clenched. She did not like being threatened by a disembodied voice. The wolf bared its teeth and the anchor flickered in warning. “If I wanted to hurt you,” she said slowly, “you’d both be dead by now.” Another pulse of green light. “Trust me when I say I can do plenty before your poison stops me.”

She could have sworn the tip of the dagger dug just a bit deeper into her leathers, when the man said roughly, “All right, all right. Leave her alone, Hessie.”

There was silence as the woman seemed to consider, but then the pressure vanished. 

Roslyn let out a sharp breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Nearly at the same time, a brief brush of energy, carrying with it the faint scent of pine smoke and soft whispers, dispersed around her in a cloud. Solas had been holding a spell over her, though she hadn’t felt him cast a barrier.

A dark shadow peeled out from her left, and Roslyn saw the woman, or, more accurately, _dwarven_ woman step back to stand next to the man. She had a long, aristocratic face, with sharply cut blonde hair that ran parallel to her chin and wide-set grey eyes. Roslyn couldn’t tell how old she was—she might have been twenty or fifty, there was something ageless about her face. Her movements were slow, precise, and Roslyn realized with a jolt that even as she watched the dwarf move, she heard no scuff of boots or shift of armor.

Everyone else moved quickly into the room. Hawke and Sera stepped up to her level, while Solas moved just to the left of her back, standing close enough to touch. Neither the old man nor the dwarven woman said anything, though the old man’s eyes widened in alarm when he caught sight of Iron Bull.

“Right, now that we’re all bosom friends,” Roslyn started while Sera circled around to the left, her bow trained on the dwarf, “I suppose it’s all right to ask if either of you might happen to be Grey Wardens?”

The dwarven woman made no reaction, her face stony and severe, but behind her the man scowled. “Why do you ask?” he said.

“I want to talk. If you are Grey Wardens, you might be able to answer some questions I have.”

“That’s a mighty big assumption, girl,” the dwarven woman murmured.

“Fine,” Roslyn snapped, temper flaring, “how’s this for an assumption? I think you fled the moment we got to Crestwood and that makes me suspect that you, like the rest of your order, don’t want to be seen. Now, I don’t want to _assume_ anything untoward, but it strikes me as odd that the moment an archdemon and an ancient darkspawn surface and wreak havoc in Ferelden, wardens start vanishing from all across Southern Thedas.” She paused, letting her words hang. “If you’re not wardens, we’ll leave you alone and let you get back to whatever you were doing in this dank cave.”

The man frowned, looking down at the dwarven woman, who was still staring at Roslyn with an uncanny gleam of suspicion in her eyes.

“Please,” Bethany murmured, stepping between Roslyn and Hawke and shooing her brother’s hand away when he tried to pull her back. “My brother is a Grey Warden, and he went missing three months ago. If you know anything…”

Roslyn watched her out of the corner of her eye. She couldn’t tell if Bethany was actually that sincere, or if she was putting it on. _Maybe a mixture of both_ , she conceded, finding it hard to believe that anyone related to Hawke was entirely innocent.

The dwarf’s eyes flashed to Bethany, and while Roslyn couldn’t be sure, she thought she saw a bit of sympathy filter into her expression.

“Is your brother stationed in Ferelden?” the dwarf asked after a long pause.

“The Free Marches,” Hawke said darkly, his voice ringing with a silent threat.

She looked between Hawke and Bethany, and let out a sharp breath, turning to the man behind her. “You think it has spread that far?”

He scowled and shook his head. “More likely they retreated to Weisshaupt. But some of them could have come south. Then again, I have no bloody idea what might have happened. Could be chasing griffons, for all I know.”

“Weisshaupt?” Hawke asked sharply. “The Warden fortress in the Anderfels?”

“Right,” the old man started, letting his hand fall off the pommel of his sword and settling back so that he leaned against the edge of the table, “this might take a while. I’d like to at least know who we’re talking to if I’m to betray the Wardens.”

Everyone assembled gave their names except Sera, who just scowled and blew a raspberry. The old warden chuckled, before turning back to Roslyn. “Well, color me humbled. The Champion of Kirkwall and the Inquisitor herself. You’re serious.”

“Just a bit,” Roslyn said, voice light, but keeping one eye on the dwarf.

“You can call me Rainier. This is my wife, Field Commander Hestia Aeducan.”

“Charmed,” Roslyn said, following the motion of his hand as he pressed it to the dwarf’s upper back.

Rainier grimaced. “Sorry about the greeting. It’s been a hard few months.”

“It has been a difficult year for the rest of Thedas as well,” Solas said, voice cold.

“You’re right about that.” Rainier shook his head. “How much do you know, then?”

“The Wardens of Amaranthine and Wildervale have vanished,” Roslyn said, “and no one’s heard from the Orlesian Order either.”

“Starkhaven and Antiva say the same,” Bethany added, voice firm even as her eyes glittered with anxiety.

Aeducan crossed her arms, settling a bit closer to her husband. “We can’t speak for the Wardens north of the Waking Sea or past Orlais, but our guess is that they’ve been recalled to Weisshaupt. Things have been…tense between the First Warden and his lower commanders, and there have been whispers of a gathering for a while to settle some disagreements. Ever since the last Blight, when no one came to Ferelden for aid, there’s been bad blood.”

“And the Wardens in the south?” Roslyn prompted.

A pause, and then Aeducan said, “A year ago, every Warden in Orlais and Ferelden began to hear the Calling.”

Hawke’s curse and Bethany’s gasp was enough to tell Roslyn that whatever the Calling was, it was not a welcome sound. The rest of her party seemed just as confused as she was. “I take it that’s a bad thing?”

“The Calling tells a Grey Warden she’s dying,” Bethany murmured, fear threaded through her gentle voice. “It’s the signal that the magic that allows them to kill darkspawn has finally turned against them.”

Aeducan was staring at Bethany with sharp intensity. “You know a lot about it.”

Bethany said nothing, but her expression hardened.

“Wait,” Iron Bull said slowly, “every Grey Warden in Ferelden and Orlais thinks they’re dying? How much you wanna bet Coryphea’s pulling at their strings?”

“She might be powerful enough,” Roslyn murmured, fear crawling up her spine at the idea that one woman, even one as powerful as the Elder One, could influence so many minds at once.

“And she’s done it before. Her prison in the Vinmarks was just a fucking test run.” Hawke cursed again and paced, running a hand over his face. “Of course she’d go for the Wardens. Ready-made soldiers. All she has to do is whisper a bit into their heads and they’ll do whatever she wants.”

“All right, easy,” Rainier said roughly. “The only thing we know for sure is that this Calling has made a lot of people scared.”

“How scared?” Roslyn asked, her voice hard. She knew exactly how far people could go when pushed. When their fear drove them to madness and cruelty.

Aeducan’s jaw clenched, her fine features hardening into a tired mask. “Warden Commander Clarel of Orlais has called for all affected wardens to gather somewhere in the Korcari Wilds. We don’t know what she’s planning, but we know it involves blood magic, and ending the Blights for good.”

“Great,” Hawke muttered while Sera swore colorfully in the shadows. “Because if at first you don’t succeed—”

“Why are you two hiding out here in a cave, then?” Roslyn asked before the anger in Rainier’s eyes could come to a head. _If Hawke could just shut his damn mouth for five minutes…_ “Do you not hear the Calling?”

“No, we do,” he said, hand flexing protectively over his wife’s shoulders.

“I’ve dealt with something like this before,” Hestia said, reaching up to take his hand. “After the Fifth Blight, my warden commander was forced to kill a sentient darkspawn trying to end the Blights as well. He wanted to do it in a different way, but it all ends the same.” She looked down, shadows flitting through her large, pale eyes. “There is no other way to end a Blight besides killing the archdemon when it rises. Anything else is madness.”

“Lot of people didn’t take too kindly to our objections, so we fled,” Rainier continued. “Some agreed with us, but the thing about the Order is that we’ll do what needs to be done. That kind of dedication can become blind trust when faced with something this big. You have to understand that we’re the only thing standing between this world and a long, bloody death. If we were all to die, at the same time, Maker fucking knows the kind of destruction that would come in the next Blight without any of us to stop it.”

“Because any action, however foolish, is better than doing nothing at all,” Solas said archly. “By that logic, any response might be justified with the proper explanation. _Intent_ means little when you trail havoc in your wake.”

Roslyn turned sharply, surprised by the depth of loathing in his eyes. “You really think this is the best time?”

“No, no,” Hawke said with a wide, cutting smile, “he’s right. This is bullshit. Whatever this Clarel woman thinks she’s doing—”

“Enough,” Roslyn snapped, stepping forward and turning around to meet his gaze. “Wait outside.” She turned to Solas with a frown. “You too.”

Hawke let out a wry laugh, but shook his head, glaring at Aeducan and Rainier before turning on his heel. For a moment, she thought Solas would refuse, his face a hard mask as he held her gaze, but then he simply inclined his head and left, following Hawke.

“I’m out too,” Sera mumbled, shouldering her bow. “I’ll make sure they don’t wander off.” She gave Roslyn a quick wink, before she disappeared out of the cave.

Roslyn took a deep breath, privately thinking that if anyone could handle those two, it would be Sera.

She turned back, not missing the look that passed between Aeducan and Rainier. “You say the Wardens are gathering in the Korcari Wilds?” 

“That’s the rumor.” Aeducan frowned. “We were supposed to meet another warden here, but I think he must have been caught. That or he couldn’t leave. I know there’ve been whispers from the Chasind seeing wardens at the edge of the Brecilian Forest, but once you get into the Wilds, there’s no way to navigate without knowing exactly where you need to go. And even then, it’s difficult.”

“Another warden?”

“An Orlesian Field Commander named Stroud. He also took issue with Clarel’s plan. Thom and I have been communicating with him since we were forced to flee. The message must have gotten lost in transit.”

“I know Stroud,” Bethany murmured, eyes distant as she stared at the ground. “He’s a good man.”

“I’m sorry about your brother, girl,” Aeducan said softly, something like pity flashing in her eyes. “But take heart that this madness likely hasn’t touched him. I don’t think this false Calling has spread that far.”

Bethany’s expression hardened, and she nodded. “Thank you. It’s something, at least.”

“Have you two got any way of contacting this Stroud again?” Iron Bull asked. “Or tracking him down? We’re going to need someone on the inside to figure out what, exactly, they’re trying to do. Blood magic sounds frightening, but that could be anything. It’d be easier to figure out a way to stop them if we know what they’re actually trying to do.”

Roslyn met his gaze, thankful that he was present. He was nothing if not ruthlessly efficient when it came to strategy.

Rainier blinked, looking back to her in surprise. “You really want to involve the Inquisition?”

“If Coryphea is behind this, we’re already involved.” It made sense now why they hadn’t heard anything from the Elder One in the months since Haven’s fall. If she’d been planning all of this since before the Conclave, it might already be too late to stop the Wardens. 

Rainier frowned at the maps strewn on the table behind him. “We had planned on heading south to see if we couldn’t ferret them out ourselves. But with the Inquisition’s help, we might be able to find them faster.”

“Someone still needs to find Stroud.” Aeducan sighed. “I have a few leads.” She turned, and her expression softened as she stared up at her husband. “You’re not going to like this.”

He scowled and let out a hollow laugh. “If you’re thinking what I know you’re thinking, then yes. I’m not going to like it.”

They looked at each other for a long moment. Roslyn had the odd sensation that they were somehow communicating without words. It made her feel as if she were intruding.

Finally, Rainier matched his wife’s sigh. “Right. Looks like I’ll be sticking with you for a while, if that’s all right. It will be easier for Hessie to send me word once she finds Stroud, and that way we can know where to start rather than stomping blindly through the Korcari Wilds.”

Roslyn’s brows raised. “If that’s what you’re offering, I’d be glad to take it, serah.”

“You think your men out there will play nice if I join up?”

She gave him a thin smile. “They will if I tell them to. I can be very persuasive.”

Aeducan actually grinned at that. “Good to hear, your worship.”

Rainier chuckled, but stepped forward, holding out his hand and inclining his head. “It’ll be an honor to fight with you, my lady.”

“Welcome aboard, Warden Rainier.” She took his hand, squeezing maybe a bit harder than was necessary.

The old man’s eyes flashed with surprise, and his mouth twisted into a smile under his beard.

“We’ll leave you to your affairs,” she said, “and you can make your way to Caer Bronach in your own time, about ten miles southwest of here, outside the village of Crestwood. I intend to stay until we deal with that dragon and make sure the village is safe, but no more than a week.”

Rainier nodded. “Understood. It’s good to see that people haven’t forgotten our value. It’s a warden’s duty to protect the people of Thedas, and I’d like to make sure I prove that’s still true.”

She held his gaze, trying not to think about the knowledge that the Grey Wardens were somehow involved with the woman who had killed so many of her people. “I hope you do, serah,” she murmured, turning to Aeducan. The dwarf was watching Rainier with an exasperated affection, but met her gaze at once. “Safe travels, Warden Aeducan.”

She inclined her head, but otherwise made no move to approach like her husband. “To you as well, Inquisitor.”

Roslyn had turned and taken two steps toward the exit, when she stopped. “I…don’t suppose either one of you know of Warden Commander Cousland?”

Rainier snorted. “I don’t think you’d find any Warden alive today who doesn’t know of the Hero of Ferelden.”

“She conscripted me,” Aeducan said shortly, voice and face expressionless.

_Well, that’s not a good sign_ , Roslyn thought as she took in Aeducan’s cool eyes. “I wondered if you knew where she was.”

“Joanna Cousland abandoned her post three years ago in the middle of the night,” Aeducan said coldly, anger bleeding into her voice. “No one knows where she is.”

“All right,” Roslyn murmured, almost wishing she hadn’t asked so she wouldn’t have to tell Leliana. “Thank you. Both of you.”

She left with Iron Bull and Bethany, trying not to stare too obviously as the two wardens turned from them and embraced. Aeducan folded into Rainier’s side and whispered something up at the large man, who smiled.

They found Hawke and Sera arguing about what sounded like the best way to distill rum in one’s sink, while Solas stood off to the side, listening with mild amusement. All of them turned as soon as Roslyn stepped out of the cave.

“Right, just so we’re clear,” she started, focusing mostly on Hawke, but giving Solas a hard glare as well, “we’re going to be working with the few Grey Wardens who don’t think allying with an ancient magister is a good idea. I don’t give a flying fuck what you think about the Order, or their plan, or, frankly, _me_. I’m not going to throw away help when it is offered. Warden Rainier will be joining the Inquisition, and we will all be very grateful. I don’t want to have to repeat myself.”

She exhaled, walking forward before anyone else could express their opinions about her decision. Pressure pounded behind her eyes and she fought the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose.

“Right you are, Inquisitor,” Sera called cheerfully. “You heard her, Bloody-bits. Play nice. You too, Solas.”

Roslyn might have smiled at Hawke’s non-committal grunt, but she was too keyed-up. She’d been awake too long without any kind of reprieve. Suddenly, the idea of going into the Deep Roads with Solas alone tonight was not only unwelcome, but downright stupid. She didn’t need to deal with… _that_ on top of everything else.

She didn’t turn around as she heard someone walk up behind her, not wanting to field Hawke’s needling attempts to flirt, or whatever the fuck else he’d decided to subject her to now.

But her frustration was misplaced, as Iron Bull said congenially, “So, boss, how are you holding up?”

Her mouth pulled into the ghost of a smile. “Splendidly, Bull. Don’t I seem calm and relaxed?”

“Sure. Your eye usually twitch that bad when you’re asleep, too?”

Roslyn shot him a hard glare. “Is there a point to this?”

His face was neutral as he shrugged. “Just that perhaps the best way to get your people to work together and listen to you isn’t calling them all stupid and yelling at them.”

She took a deep breath, fiddling with the pommel of her sword. “I didn’t call them stupid.”

“You did. It’s all in the delivery.”

“Well, if it came out that way, then maybe there’s some truth to it.”

“Look,” he said, finally smiling and looking down at her, “I get it. It’s a lot easier to just manhandle everyone into an agreement and hope they follow along, but that only works when shit is falling apart. You’re in an extended war now. Fear is only going to keep people in line so long before they realize that ‘hey, maybe it’d be easier not to work with this person I hate.’ From one lowly boss to another.”

She kept her gaze forward, but recognized the truth in his words. Vivienne had given her a similar warning all those months ago in Haven, that the people’s admiration of her must outweigh their fear, or they would despise her in the end.

“Just think about it,” Iron Bull said when she remained silent. He gave her a gentle pat on her shoulder.

“Thank you, Bull,” she murmured, trying to let go of the anxiety flooding her stomach.

She might have gotten used to being the center of attention, being the one everyone looked to for answers, but she hated this. She didn’t know how to play on anyone’s emotions or appeal to their better natures. She knew how to yell loudly and back it up with her magic. Stumbling into an alliance between the mages and templars had been luck. Her failure in Jader had proven just how little ability she had to navigate anything that couldn’t be settled with a fight or intimidation.

And even then, it was just as easy for a shadow to gut her from behind when she got complacent.

“I’m going to jog back to Caer Bronach,” she said quickly, not looking to see his reaction. “Make sure no one catches up to me, will you?”

She was already running when he called, “Can do, Boss.”

The burn in her legs was a welcome distraction as her mind struggled to clear. She shoved down the feeling of being watched, that something was lurking in the pristine Ferelden hills, following her every move. Waiting. Her breath came faster and her lungs heaved, and after a few minutes’ steady pace, it was almost easy to forget just how thoroughly unprepared for all of this she was.


	20. Fuss and Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Just A Man" by Alex Clare](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iVoAb94NyFA&index=20&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&t=0s)

Roslyn spent the rest of the day helping her people settle into Caer Bronach. For some unknown, yet fucking blessed reason, none of her party acknowledged her outburst after meeting the wardens. Even Hawke realized she wasn’t in the mood for his particular brand of charm, and for the most part, left her alone. She wrote and sent off missives to Leliana and Alistair, largely the same, though she did add some extra niceties to the king’s letter, hoping he wouldn’t mind them commandeering another one of his fortresses without permission.

Solas accepted her without argument when she asked for another day before heading back down into the Deep Roads. She disliked the idea of spending any time alone with him right now, when her nerves were already stretched thin. It was hard enough to keep her guard up and her emotions in check when she was not already trying to ignore the tightly lodged ball of fear in her throat. And she had no desire to cage herself in the damp, dripping dark again anytime soon.

She closed herself into her room as soon as she had a moment to herself, and sat down heavily on the cot set up between crates of empty wine bottles and packed scraps of armor. Her head fell into her hands, and she closed her eyes against the steady pounding beneath her brow.

_I’m acting like a fucking child,_ she thought, frowning into her palms. One night without rest and she was snapping at her people and letting strangers sneak up on her. Overreacting and lashing out. She was the Inquisitor, not some jumped up prisoner forced here against her will. She didn’t have the luxury of stomping off to mope on her own anymore.

The place where Aeducan had pressed her dagger to Roslyn’s side burned, as if the poison she’d promised to release had pierced the skin. She hadn’t been that close to death in a long time. Not since Coryphea and the dragon. One twitch of the dwarf’s hand and—

She rolled onto her back and draped an arm over her eyes, willing herself to sleep. She was tired and frustrated, and her fear and anxiety were getting the better of her. If she could just sleep for a few hours, she might be better equipped to handle the itching energy that crawled over her skin and left her restless. The paranoia that someone, or something, was watching her.

It took her a few minutes, but her heart finally slowed. Her headache lessened. Every thought that passed through her mind, she beat back, trying to just…be.

She almost thought it had worked and she might get an hour or so of sleep, when Solas’s words drifted through her lulled mind, past her mental barriers, as they were wont to do.

_“Power justifies ignorance… Because any action, however foolish, is better than doing nothing at all.”_

Even worse, she remembered his harsh assessment of her all those months ago in that dark room in Redcliffe—that she was, _“willingly binding yourself to a source of unknown magic with little to no care for the consequences of your actions.”_

So this is what he thought of her.

She’d done the same thing the Wardens were doing. She might not have been endangering anyone’s life other than her own, but it was the same. She’d needed to do something to the wolf, to tame it, to break it, or she’d be powerless to control it. The mark was everything, the _only_ thing that mattered, and it had been slipping from her grasp. She’d had to close the Breach to prevent that nightmare world from becoming a reality. Anything she could do, no matter how abhorrent, was worth the cost of binding the mark. Of regaining her control. Her autonomy.

Or that’s what she’d felt at the time.

What were the Grey Wardens doing if not taking a necessary, if terrible, step, to save as many lives as they could?

_The wolf is real_ , she told herself, turning over and burying her face into the cot. It smelled of mildew and dust, the decade of neglect and death that had seeped into the keep in the years since the Fifth Blight was potent as she tried to banish the unease from her mind. _This Calling is not. I did what I had to do._

In answer, the wolf rose and threaded itself through her consciousness. A sense of heavy calm settled over her, almost as if she were laying beside its fur, warm and soft and comforting. She drifted finally into an uneasy sleep, its rumble a comforting lullaby.

 

~  ✧ ~

 

They moved against the dragon the following day. Roslyn was still tired, and she hadn’t gotten more than a few hours of restless sleep that night, but the distraction was a welcome one, especially since she still had yet to speak to Hawke and Solas about their behavior with the Grey Wardens. At least with Sera bounding up and down beside her, practically buzzing in anticipation of the hunt and kill, her infectious excitement made it hard to focus too long on her own anxiety.

And when they found the dragon rampaging through a ruin overlooking the lake, she was almost glad for the simple fear that drove all other thoughts from her mind. The fight went by in a blur, adrenaline pumping and speeding up her perception. One second she was slicing across the beast’s front arm, its piercing shriek an echo of the archdemon’s that splintered through her chest. The next she was rushing forward to cover Sera’s retreat as electricity arced from the dragon’s mouth, throwing up a wave of force to push it back before it could do more than race over her skin and set her nerves alight.

Every few minutes, a pulse and shudder of familiar magic washed over her, seamless as Solas’s barrier slid around her and held. How he was keeping it up on her when he was maintaining it over Iron Bull and Sera as well, she didn’t know. Pricks of sensation—rose-red, a fresh, soft scent like clean linen, a mournful voice intoning something solemn—told her when Bethany threw up her own barrier, more often than not directed at Hawke.

Roslyn now understood exactly how Hawke had garnered such an infamously dangerous reputation in Kirkwall. The man moved like a snake, striking fast and quick, surging forward and then dancing back in a flash, taunting, swaying. He directed his staff like an extension of his own arms, sometimes using it for blunt force to break the dragon’s focus, sometimes twirling it with all the sleek efficiency of an Antivan crow.

And when he did employ his magic, which to her surprise was not as often as she’d expected, she could feel it even from across the field. The blood magic spread like a cloying cloud, pulling at her aura and make her feel weak before she shielded herself from it. She could sense the places where the Veil rippled and shuddered, and had to fight the urge to let the wolf turn and stop the magic from growing more potent.

She knew Hawke had a handle on his power—five minutes fighting next to him told her she wouldn’t need to worry about a demon slipping through the cracks of his control—but she couldn’t shake the ingrained fear of a mage willfully and enthusiastically using blood magic so near. In this, like all things, he was lazily confident. Demons pressed against the Veil where he ran, but he spared them no more than a passing interest as he fought, brushing them aside when they grew insistent. His focus never wavered, and his magic never weakened.

She couldn’t help but be impressed. Jealous, even, as she watched him fight. She was still getting used to fighting with her sword, rather than simply using her own magic, unable to reconcile the two, for some reason, without shattering her blade. It was starting to make her feel feeble, especially now that she saw Hawke seeming to have no difficulty channeling through the blade of his own staff. 

Once again she was outshone by a more proficient mage. The farther she ran from her Circle, the more it seemed to dog her steps. 

They fought for nearly an hour, all of them focused on bringing the beast down as quickly as they could. It was Iron Bull who struck the killing blow, leaping forward while Sera shot a spray of arrows into its left side as a distraction. Roslyn had just slammed the dragon’s neck down with a fist of magic, holding it as long as she could with force that rioted with green energy as the wolf fed her power.

With one mighty, colossal swing, Iron Bull brought his axe down directly between its eyes. Sparks of purple energy flew out to meet him, but they glanced harmlessly off Solas’s barrier. Roslyn held her magic in place as the dragon twitched once, twice, and then slumped to the ground with a great shudder—and an almost mournful cry.

All of them stood still for a moment, the clearing heavy with magic as the Veil pulsed and shifted, and finally settled.

“That’s fucking right!” Sera cried, punching the air and letting out a wild whoop of triumph.

Hawke jogged forward and hoisted her up, settling her onto his shoulders and taking a victory lap around the dragon. Iron Bull laughed at the sight, bare chest heaving as he pulled his axe out of the dragon’s head with a great, grating squelch.

Even Bethany smiled, a small, hummed chuckle slipping from her lips as Hawke passed and gave her a hasty kiss on the cheek.

Roslyn sheathed her sword, letting her breath even out, staring down at the lifeless dragon as the rest of her party retreated to a safe distance. She waited for the anxiety to fade, for the fear still lodged in her chest to dissipate and be replaced with excitement and relief.

But no matter how long she stared, listening to the Chargers join in, Krem shouting something about celebrating in the inn on the dam where they’d found the two teenagers, Hawke and Sera riotously agreeing—all she felt was hollow.

This monumental creature, caged lightning in scale and iron-hard bone, that had nearly gone extinct hundreds of years ago but had somehow, impossibly, survived, was now dead. Because it had ventured too close to a village and scared the populace. 

It didn’t look anything like the archdemon, she could see that now. The ravenous malevolence that had stalked her fears, that lingered at the edge of her mind when she let her thoughts turn back to that storm-covered village in the snow, wasn’t present in this creature. There had been no intelligence in its eyes, just challenge and the need for survival.

An image of a severed dragon’s head, lying on a table stone as lightning arced around it, flashed through her mind. Scales drenched in black blood, eyes white and milky—the vision in the Hinterlands.

Her jaw clenched. No matter how much she might fear the dragon, seeing it dead and lifeless on the ground made her stomach twist in unease, in something like…dread.

Solas stepped up beside her, but said nothing.

“I know it was necessary,” she murmured, low enough that only he could hear. “I know it was hunting livestock and killing people. But this…” She trailed off, unable to articulate the tightness inside her chest.

It was…wrong, not because she was squeamish, not even because she was afraid, though she was.

The wolf, calmed now from its battle-lust, sat next to her, a silent comfort as it followed the thread of her thoughts.

It felt like loss. Pulsing in her chest with a heat that made her want to run. Inexplicable, uncountable, _loss_.

She didn’t know if the realization came from her, or from the wolf, but it rang true.

“It was an impressive creature,” Solas said, his voice clipped, “but this place is safer for its death.”

She looked up at that, frowning at the shadow in his eyes.

Shaking off her hollow sadness and discomfort, she looked over her shoulder at the rest of their celebrating group. “It is. I’m just not sure I feel the same elation as everyone else.” She found him watching her with a curious smile. “Thought I’d be whooping and hollering and smearing my face with its blood, did you?”

He chuckled, shifting his staff over his back. “You have in the past expressed a certain level of enjoyment in fighting.”

“I am a complicated person,” she murmured, her eyes lingering on his lips.

“This, I have gathered. You must forgive me for being continually surprised by each new revelation.”

Her brow lifted. “Must I?” Her words came out lower than she’d meant them to, and she could hear the note of challenge in her own voice. He had been pleasantly surprised by her a lot lately. It was starting to wear thin. 

His eyes grew sharp and held, and for a moment she thought he was going to respond. She _wanted_ him to respond, rather than dance away from…whatever this was between them, again. Like he always did.

But his gaze slid to something over her shoulder, carefully hidden once more behind his mask. He tilted his head in amusement. “I believe Sera just tried to drink some of the creature’s blood, with rather unpleasant results.”

Roslyn scowled and turned to find the elf doubled over and vomiting spectacularly onto the ground.

Iron Bull was roaring with laughter, and as both she and Solas turned to join him, he said, “There’s a fucking _recipe_ , Sera. You can’t just chug the damn stuff.”

Her people salvaged what they could from the dragon—teeth, bone, scale, and wing, presumably for armor or weapons-crafting. No doubt Harritt would be tickled pink to learn of his new material, and she was sure Dagna could find some use for the many vials of dragon blood Iron Bull had insisted on preserving.

Roslyn watched without comment, trying not to focus on the sense of violation that twisted in her gut, made it hard for her to watch. If they didn’t use the creature, it would just be eaten by something else, the wyverns that roamed the hills, or the wolves they’d heard howling every night since they’d arrived. It would be a waste not to harvest its corpse. They’d already killed it.

When they finally returned to Caer Bronach, her nerves were practically screaming for release. She made her excuses to Charter, ignored the looks that Solas and Iron Bull gave her on her way out of the keep, and waved off the sentry who asked if she wanted someone to accompany her.

What she wanted was five minutes of peace and solitude in the open air. Five minutes where she didn’t feel like she was about to be swallowed up by stone or other people’s expectations. Where she wasn’t be watched all the Maker-damned time.

She didn’t go far—she knew better by now that wandering off on her own was stupid—but far enough that the sounds of the keep were only faint murmurs on the wind.

Finding a high ledge over which she could see the lake, she divested herself of her coat and shoes, unbuckled her sword and belt, and placed them roughly against a small rock. Rolling out her shoulders and shaking out her hands, she almost jumped into the first series of poses of the _Vir Ghen’aran_ , so eager was she to just fucking move without impending danger.

The fear of being helpless and weak, of being unable to defend herself, had been pulled out of the ether of her mind by the dwarf’s dagger. It pulsed in her like poison, made her want to scream. Every time she closed her eyes, or let her mind wander, it was there, gnawing at her, fraying the edges of her control. The fight with the dragon had only magnified it. She just…couldn’t get the image of its blank eyes out of her head. The memory of the vision in the Hinterlands fading in and out like some half-conjured, waking nightmare. Loss. Fear. Anger. Weakness—slamming into one another as she tried to move without thought. 

Too tense, too frantic, she just—couldn’t— _relax_.

She let her magic swell, building and stretching past where she usually stopped it. The discomfort finally wiped her mind, and she threw herself into casting, blissfully focused on the sheer act of moving, of casting, of expending the raw energy that skittered across her skin. She let the sensation of the Fade overwhelm her, and reveled in it. 

Arcane light arced from her fingers, spinning and sparking across her skin as she slammed down against the earth. Chunks of dirt and rock broke off and rose, suspended in a wave of force that she pooled and reversed. They hit the ground again with a deep boom. She conjured boulders and smashed them together, rode the currents of energy she threw into the air, pushing herself harder, higher. For nearly an hour she continued, wringing herself out until there was nothing left but the hard pulse of her heart and the burn in her limbs.

She landed soundly from one last, leaping bound, pulling in the force she’d used to carry her through the air, and rolled her neck. Her eyes closed, and she was about to lay back against the ground, spent, when a soft tapping broke the silence.

She turned, expecting to see a bird—and froze.

A man sat on a rock only twenty feet away, lounging and—she blinked, the sight so incongruous she couldn’t process it—smoking casually on a pipe.

He wore a sleek hooded jacket and worn leathers, intricately woven into a diamond pattern across his forearms and calves, his stomach and chest. He wore no shoes, merely the same foot wrappings that Solas wore. Fingerless gloves covered his hands, decked out in glinting rings, and under his hood she could just make out more flashing jewelry.

But it was his face that drew her attention. His skin was deep brown, and covered in swirling black ink. A spiral pattern crossed his right eye and a map of intricate, interconnected lines covered his forehead.

_He’s Dalish_ , she realized with a growing disquiet. _A Dalish elf._

She’d never met a Dalish elf before. It was ridiculous, but part of her had begun to think they were shadows in the dark that nobles liked to blame for all their problems. She’d known a few city elves in her time. Her old friend Aylen, the stablemaster at the Emerald Cove, had claimed to have traveled with a Dalish clan as a child. But they were just stories, rumor and fancy, like the qunari had been before she’d met Iron Bull.

“ _Dirth ma, shemlin_ ,” he started, casually, “ _ma jesanis Dirth’ena Enasalin hanahl alas nellethari?”_

His voice was deep and rough, and it took her a moment to register that she hadn’t understood a word he’d said, though she recognized the language easily enough.

“Ah—,” she started, still breathing hard from her practice, “I don’t speak elven, friend.”

He took a long puff of his pipe, cocked his head to the side. In the shadow of his hood, he almost looked like he was grinning. “ _Tasal. Hellan’loahnen ma felasil._ ”

She took a moment to get her bearings. “Do you—speak Common?”

The elf laughed, a sharp, rasping bark.

_That’s a ‘yes,’ then_. She frowned as he leapt from his rock with the grace of a cat and took a step toward her.

“ _Ir dirtharis. Ir esh’neravin._ ”

“That’s close enough,” she said, holding out her hand in warning. “I know you can understand me.”

He just watched her, taking another long draft of his pipe. The scent of the smoke was warm, heady, like freshly turned earth. After a long, pregnant pause, he pulled the pipe from his lips and dumped the ashes onto the ground, tapping the long wooden bowl against his thigh as if he had all the time in the world.

“I can,” he finally said, tipping back his hood. “Though I make a habit of speaking your fumbling human tongue as infrequently as possible.”

The first thought Roslyn had as she took in the full sight of him was that he looked dangerous. In fact, the sly smile and glittering eyes made her want to take two steps back. At once.

His long, pointed ears were covered in piercings, rimmed in gold and silver and brightly colored stone. He had large, black eyes and a soft mouth. Great ropes of black hair were bound behind his head, pulled into a tight knot. He was older than he held himself, or he looked older—the lines crowding his eyes and mouth spoke to decades of hard life, though she couldn’t tell from where she stood if they were laugh or frown lines. His build was thick for an elf, and she frowned when she realized he might be taller than she was.

“So you thought to introduce yourself by alienating me?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

He made her wary. Even with his easy smile and relaxed stance, there was something lethal about the way he twirled his pipe in his dexterous hands, the strength that radiated out from him even when he wasn’t moving.

“Testing, not alienating.”

Her eyes narrowed at the challenge in his voice. “Because asking if I spoke elven is less fun than the alternative?”

“The Inquisitor is not as dense as the rumors make her out to be,” he mused, tilting his head. “What a pleasant surprise.”

The wolf rose at her anger, rumbling inside her chest and feeding her power. Her hands clenched as the anchor answered, but she pushed it down. The last thing she needed was for her mark to go off in a shower of sparks and have this elf think she was attacking him.

His eyes honed in on the brief flash of green, calculating. “And the cursed hand is not a myth. Perhaps I’ve misjudged you humans.”

“If you’ve heard so many rumors about me,” she said coldly, “then you’ll know I’m not entirely human.”

He met her gaze, honed in on her pointed ears, and leaned back, folding his arms and running a critical eye over her. “ _Seth’lin tel’ralam Elvhen_.”

Again, she had to fight a surge of anger. And beneath that, the old wound of being too dim to understand what he was saying.

It was something left over from her childhood, when the servants had whispered behind her back and the other apprentices shot her dirty, conspiratorial looks. She was the unwelcome outsider, the butt of the joke, the sullen loner who drifted on the periphery. Except now, she should not be expected to understand elven. And she wasn’t in the mood to swallow her insecurity for a random elf who thought he would poke at the Inquisitor to see if she bit back.

“I’d be very careful what else you say, friend.” She kept her voice low, even. “You know who I am. I’d hate to prove your other rumors true.”

The elf flashed her a quicksilver smile. “You have a sharp tongue. Good. I’d hate for you to turn out to be dull, after all this.”

A crack echoed through the hills. Roslyn jerked her head to the side just as the shuddering pulse of red lyrium burst against her skin, and a shard shot out from the nearby bush.

Her wave of force batted it away, along with three more projectiles that came on its tail. She leapt back, flipping and throwing her left hand out. A line of green and white fire leapt from her fingers and sliced the bush in half.

Smoking leaves drifted up into the air to reveal three hunched figures. Two were normal templars, crystals protruding from their twisted faces, bloodshot eyes leering through the dim light of dusk. The third was taller, and both arms were covered in a long, spiked growth, a pair of lances where its hands should have been.

She dodged another spray of crystals, hoping the elf was smart enough to run. Rolling to her sword, she unsheathed it and surged to her feet just in time to parry a downward arc of the first knight’s blade. She gritted her teeth against the strain, her limbs already sore from her practice, and slammed her head forward.

Her telekinetic burst sent the knight staggering back. With a shout, she swung, slicing through its crystalline neck with a grating crunch. She jerked aside as sizzling blood spurted from its twitching corpse. Some splashed against her stomach and forearms, bristling and burning her skin, but she’d been spared the worst of it.

She turned around, ready to face the other two, only to find the elf dancing between them, a long, curved sword in hand.

_Idiot_ , she thought, surging forward, only to hesitate when she saw the fine sheen of orange light that surrounded his blade. The swell of his aura hit her, a powerful force that smelled like fresh rain and spiced wine and sounded like the distant baying of hounds.

He arced in a perfectly timed move to catch one of the templar’s arms, slicing the spiked growth clean off with no more effort than a warm knife moving through butter.

Roslyn circled around to get a clear line of sight on the last knight, and clenched her fist. An arcane prison wrapped around him, and he was lifted bodily off the ground as her magic sundered into him. His armor cracked in a smoking whine, and the inhuman light dimmed in his eyes.

She breathed heavily as he fell to the ground, watching closely as her new friend made quick work of the last templar.

Each movement was quick, easy, and his face showed no exertion as he lithely danced back and pressed forward. With a final flick of his wrist, he speared the templar through with his sword and shoved it off, a quick spin of magic—fire, but more controlled and beautifully executed than she’d ever seen before—and the templar’s neck snapped back and crumbled into a smoking husk.

Roslyn didn’t wait for him to catch his bearings, swallowing her sudden thrill of appreciation at seeing the elf’s skills, but stepped over the body of the second fallen knight. Breath heavy from exertion, she leveled her sword at the elf’s chest as he turned.

He didn’t react except to lift his brows.

“Right,” she exhaled, anger still thudding in her chest, even if her interest had been piqued, “I don’t know who the fuck you are or what you think you were trying to accomplish by sneaking up on me, but I’m not interested in playing games. Your name, your business, now, and I won’t run you through with my sword.” She gave him her most lethal smile and added, “In the common tongue, if you’d be so kind.”

He watched her catch her breath, amusement dancing behind his black eyes, and said, casually, “You can call me, Isahn, Inquisitor. I was watching your people settle into the human fortress and happened to see you storm off on your own to train. Luckily, I was curious and followed you, as our friends here decided to take their time in setting their ambush.”

Her jaw clenched as the wolf growled in distrust, but she kept her sword steady. “You were watching the Inquisition?”

“No,” he inclined his head, a grin tugging at his lips, “I was watching for _you_.”

Her grip tightened. “Why?”

“It’s not every day an inquisitor crosses my path. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

“I hope I delivered.”

His grin widened, eyes intent. As if he were waiting for her to continue.

“How long have you been watching me?”

“Only the past few days. I was drawn to the area by the presence of a fell artifact. Imagine my surprise when I found the entire valley crawling in undead. I was waiting, so see if my assistance was needed.”

So her paranoia was rewarded. Pity it hadn’t warned her of his approach. 

She frowned. The Dalish were an isolated people, sticking to the forests and wild places of Thedas, wary of outsiders. For good reason. The Chantry had not been kind to the elves. She’d never heard of them going out of their way to help humans.

“You wanted to help the villagers?” she asked.

His grin sharpened, and his eyes flashed with what might have been anger. “I said nothing about helping the humans.”

She blinked. _Does he mean the spirits?_

“Besides, you seem to have that well in hand,” he continued. “Expert handling of the dragon by your team. I could not help but notice, however, that you were less excited to fight the beast than you were to dispose of these creatures.” He paused, eyes glinting with interest. “I wonder why that is.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed by your skills of observation?” 

“Perhaps less impressed than by my skill with a blade.” He gave her another full-body look, but it wasn’t lurid or suggestive. It was assessing. “How long have you been practicing the _Vir Ghen’aran_?”

Curiosity sparked at the back of her mind, and that same damn thrill that had watched him fight with excitement pulled on her anger. “You—recognize it?”

“Anyone trained in the _Dirth’ena Enasalin_ would know one of its primary practices at a glance.” He shrugged, one brow arching. “I’m more surprised that _you_ do. Your technique is appalling, but you have a basic understanding of the forms. You fight with some mastery of your blade, and so you show promise. More than I ever thought one of your kind could show, and that, in and of itself, is something to mark.”

She frowned. “It’s not appalling.”

He said nothing, but his grin twisted up to the side.

“I’m just supposed to believe a curious Dalish elf wandered into the area with the intent to restore peace and took a shine to me, am I?”

“Believe whatever you want, Inquisitor, but I don’t mean you harm.” He nodded at the templar at his feet, the one behind her. “It would have been easier to let you fight alone had that been the case.”

“Then what do you want?”

He sighed and looked over his shoulder. “I might have been premature in my assessment of your intellect.”

“Watch it, _hahren_.” She hoped she remembered the correct term. Adi had called Solas that a few times in the past, and she was pretty sure it meant ‘old.’ “I’m not known for my patience.”

His smile widened as he looked back at her. “So you do know some elven. Good. That might make things easier. Your people are about to come over the hill, by the way,” he added, just as the sound of pounding feet came from the direction of Caer Bronach. “You might want to lower your sword, or they’ll take me for a threat.”

“My sword is fine where it is.”

He only stared—again, content to wait.

Iron Bull was first over the small outcropping of rock. Axe out and ready, he circled around the elf, taking in the scene with one sweep of his eye.

“Everything all right, boss?”

She nodded as Solas and Charter came up behind him, with a few more guards on their tail.

“I’m fine,” she said.

Solas’s eyes snapped to her, taking in the burnt holes in her shirt and the small injuries on her arms from the red lyrium, and to the back of the elf’s head, his aura rising as he readied a spell.

The elf didn’t turn, his eyes still on Roslyn, as he called, _“Dan’naris, falon. Dar bellanaris.”_

If Roslyn hadn’t been looking at Solas, she might not have seen the tremor run through his expression. The tension rise at once to his shoulders. 

Solas looked again at the back of the elf’s head, and his expression hardened into one Roslyn knew well—eyes hard, face a mask that revealed nothing. He walked forward slowly, his hands gripped tightly around his staff, until he could see the elf’s face.

His eyes went flat, and a stillness came over him that Roslyn hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t his usual stiffness of posture, his cool disregard, hiding an anger or frustration that glimmered like a single burning ember behind his eyes—but an eerie, empty calm. To anyone else, he probably looked surprised, but Roslyn felt his aura vanish as he hid himself, saw the utter lack of emotion in his eyes.

It made her stomach clench in fear.

The Dalish elf, Isahn, kept his eyes on Roslyn, though she guessed his next words were directed toward Solas.

_“Gashara ma na’din, venavis, elathin mar dirthara shemlen ma harel. Ma emma tel’enafim nadas melana. Myath-ma.”_

Solas said nothing, but kept his eyes locked on the elf’s face. So still, he was more like a statue carved of marble than flesh and blood.

“Solas,” Roslyn murmured, chill creeping up the back of her neck the longer he stood in silence, “do you know this man?”

A slight twitch creased his brow. A soft exhale broke through his lips.

The Dalish elf’s eyes narrowed, though his voice was still easy as he said, “ _Solas_ and I used to know each other quite well.”

Solas’s grip tightened around his staff, his lips flattened. The tension held.

She looked between them. “Really?” she asked. Whoever this Isahn was, they were not friends.

Solas looked at her, finally, and a flicker of emotion sparked in his eyes—there and gone again before she could guess what it was. “Yes.” He turned back to Isahn, and took a step forward—one step closer to Roslyn, as if he were shielding her, placing himself just slightly between her and his old acquaintance. “Though it has been some time.”

Isahn smiled, finally looking at Solas. “It has.”

He was still relaxed, still standing straight with his arms folded over his chest, for all the world acting as if he didn’t currently have six armed and dangerous individuals watching his every move.

“Why didn’t you just say you knew someone in the Inquisition?” she asked, trying to distract herself from the question rising in the back of her mind like a great beast from a still lake.

He _knew_ Solas?

This man was a link to Solas’s past, a past that he had so far kept entirely hidden from her except for a few scattered details. Even after everything that had happened between them, she still knew almost nothing about him. As…important as he’d become to her over the past year, he still felt at times a stranger.

And the idea of gaining even a bit of insight into the man who had fixed himself into her life so irrevocably was hard to dismiss.

Isahn shrugged. “I wasn’t sure if he still wanted to kill me. It seems he doesn’t, or he’s playing nice for your benefit. Either way, I had no guarantee our shared history was a mark in my favor.” He grinned, directed the full weight of his calculating gaze toward her. “And it’s not him I’m interested in.”

“So you’ve said,” she muttered.

She frowned, watching Solas carefully. He held himself taut, as if ready to spring at the slightest provocation, his staff held to the side like an afterthought.

Solas sensed her gaze, and looked to her.

She arched an eyebrow.

He hesitated, the hard line in his brow the only sign of his unease. But as he caught her unspoken question, he leaned back and gave one short nod of his head.

Some of the tension eased from his shoulders, but he was still wary, his eyes never leaving Isahn for more than a few seconds.

“You said you want to help?” Roslyn asked, turning back to Isahn.

His eyes flicked between her and Solas, a hint of curiosity in the tilt of his head, but he nodded. “Now that the lake is calm, I am free of my previous obligation. I lay my talents at your feet, Inquisitor.”

“Why would a Dalish elf want to join something called the Inquisition?” Iron Bull asked, stepping toward Roslyn, still holding his axe at the ready.

“Why did you join them, qunari?” he responded dismissively. “Or have you horned savages made it this far south already and you’re justing waiting for your moment to kill your leader?”

“ _Watch_ it,” Iron Bull said in a low voice, almost a growl.

“You don’t call anyone in my Inquisition a savage,” Roslyn snapped. “ _Anyone_.”

Isahn glanced between her and Solas again, nothing betrayed in his expression except mild confusion, but then inclined his head toward Iron Bull. “I am sorry. That was unworthy of me. I have not had many pleasant encounters with your kind in the past. I suppose it has colored my impression of your people.”

“You’d be surprised how often I hear that,” Iron Bull muttered, grip tightening over his axe. “And how little I care.”

Isahn simply gave Iron Bull an apologetic smile.

“You want to join the Inquisition?” Roslyn asked, her temper wearing thin. “Great job so far, really.”

He was an asshole, yes, but he was also Dalish. He might be a useful connection should the Inquisition ever need to interact with his people. He could fight, clearly, and what he’d said about the _Vir Ghen’aran_ didn’t seem to be him grandstanding.

And he knew Solas.

“I do,” he answered, eyeing her with an infuriating kind of interest. “You could always use another blade, no? I would be happy to extol my many benefits to you at length, but I think you’ve already had proof of my prowess.”

Her jaw clenched, and she shot another look at Solas. He didn’t look at her, but he also didn’t protest.

“Fine,” she finally said, lowering her sword and exhaling sharply.

Isahn just smiled, and unfolded his arms to incline his head.

Before anyone else could move, Solas said sharply, “I’d like a moment alone with—my old friend, Inquisitor.”

She turned, studying his expression. It made her uneasy to see him so unnaturally calm. And she didn’t like the idea of leaving him alone with her new…recruit.

“Are you sure?” she murmured.

He looked at her, eyes hard. “I will be fine.”

She hesitated, before spearing Isahn with a glare.

To his credit, he said nothing, though the curiosity in his eyes made her skin crawl.

“All right,” she said, forcing herself to retrieve her coat and shoes. She winced as the burns over her arms and stomach smarted.

Discomfort rose up her throat, and she tried to ignore the voice in the back of her head shouting that she should, under no circumstance, leave Solas alone with Isahn.

Charter met her gaze with an unspoken question, but she shook her head. She wouldn’t set a spy on him. No matter how much she might want to.

Iron Bull looked pointedly at her bare feet as she and the rest of the small group left the two elves to their reunion. “You in a rush?”

“If I stop to put these on, I will be tempted to stay.” She exhaled through her nose. “And that would be inappropriate.”

Iron Bull chuckled under his breath. “Solas can handle himself,” he muttered, resting his axe on his shoulder. “Besides, I don’t think that asshole means any harm.”

“So magnanimous, Bull.” She looked up, frowning. “You think?”

Iron Bull nodded, unbothered. “He was too relaxed to want to start something. And if he was putting it on, that’s all the more reason to expect he wants in. What he’s after is anyone’s guess, but any idiot with eyes can see that hurting Solas wouldn’t exactly ingratiate them with you.”

Roslyn tried, and failed, to keep her expression cool, disliking the idea that she was so easily read, but wanting to turn around and wait until she was sure Solas came out of the reunion unscathed.

“Right,” she muttered, wincing at the burns along her chest as they made their way back to Caer Bronach, thinking to herself that even sneaking off to find a minute’s peace was, seemingly, beyond her capabilities now.


	21. Cursed from the Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Waiting Game" by Banks](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JCT_lgJ5eq8&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&index=21&t=0s)

The next day, Roslyn threw herself enthusiastically into clearing out the hills of the remaining bandits and checking for signs of more red templars. Though they might have taken out their primary camp, last night’s ambush proved that she couldn’t be sure she would sense the influence of their corruption in time. A thought that had made it difficult to fall asleep.

Tension thrummed in her body, and no matter how much she fought or tried to distract herself with the matter of restoring Caer Bronach and helping the villagers of Crestwood, she could not ignore her unease. She should have been able to sense the red templars. She should have seen Isahn coming. She should have been ready. But again, for the second time in two days, she’d been caught off her guard. It wasn’t like she’d ever been hyper aware of her surroundings, but the wolf’s senses had given her a false confidence. It was making her sloppy.

Solas hadn’t spoken to her since returning to the keep the previous night, only half an hour after the rest of them. Whatever the outcome of his conversation with Isahn, he clearly didn’t feel the need to inform her of its specifics.

_And there’s no reason he should,_ she told herself again and again.

He didn’t owe her an explanation, and she shouldn’t want one.

Isahn, for his part, showed no sign of any guilt or misgivings at his manner of arrival into the Inquisition. He sat at the fringes of the courtyard, carving something that looked like the beginnings of a bird from a block of pale wood. He spoke when spoken to, and didn’t actively antagonize anyone, content to keep to himself. It was, Roslyn reasoned, actually kind of nice. He was most definitely up to something, and that something was probably nefarious, but at least he wasn’t getting into trouble. If someone kept an eye on him at all times, which she’d instructed Charter to see to, he couldn’t do much harm. She’d gotten used to herding unruly additions to her Inquisition like cats. Hawke had made her wary of newcomers. The asshole.

But she couldn’t shake Isahn’s interest. He watched her closely as she came in to the courtyard after a morning of hunting bandits with Hawke and the Chargers, but she didn’t confront him. He could stare all he liked, but he wasn’t going to learn anything exciting by tracking her every movement while she spoke with her people about supply lines and sending out ravens.

By mid-afternoon, she felt a headache coming on and excused herself, laying down for a time to at least try to get some sleep. After a restless hour, she got up to find the sun inching slowly past the horizon. There was maybe an hour or two left before it would set in earnest.

Enough time for her and Solas to slip down into the Deep Roads and activate the elven artifact.

If she worked up the nerve to ask him.

She rubbed wakefulness into her eyes, shrugging off the stiff fatigue of the last few days and trying her best to smooth her hair into something presentable. She caught herself thinking longingly of the large claw-foot tub in her rooms back at Skyhold and the hair tonic Vivienne had presented to her after returning from Val Royeaux—“Just a suggestion, dear,” she’d said with an amused smile, leaving Roslyn to figure out what exactly it was.

Frowning at the odd longing for luxuries she’d never needed before becoming Inquisitor, she pulled her hair into a messy bun, securing it as best she could, and paused before leaving the room. After a moment’s hesitation, she grabbed her worn leather coat and shrugged it on before belting her sword over her waist.

She made her way down to the main courtyard, where a large bonfire burned and scouts mingled with soldiers. She smiled at the few she knew by name, nodding at those who caught her eye. It took her by surprise that she wasn’t needing to fake the warmth and fondness. That, at least, was a welcome change. 

Hawke sat in the middle of a crowd, all of whom were watching him speak with wide, excited eyes. He gestured emphatically at something Roslyn missed, sloshing a bit of liquid out of the tankard he held, and belched. The group let out a smattering of laughter, some even going so far as to clap.

_At least someone appreciates him_ , Roslyn thought with a begrudging smile as she skirted the group. A few people looked up, rising to pay her the proper respects, but she waved them off. She tried not to meet Hawke’s gaze. She did not have the energy to deal with him right now, not when Isahn was perched on the raised platform above, following her movements closely as he puffed on his pipe. Like some menacing owl half-hidden in the flickering firelight. _One problem at a time._

Iron Bull, Sera, and Solas sat off to the side with a few of Leliana’s agents, Charter among them. The last gave her a short nod, but otherwise made no move to acknowledge her.

“Glad you joined us, boss,” Iron Bull said when she was close enough that he didn’t have to shout over Hawke’s bombastic storytelling. “I think there’s still a roast something or other on the spit if you’re hungry.”

“I’m not, but I appreciate it.” She turned to Solas. “Are you still interested in helping me with what I spoke to you about two days ago?”

His eyes flicked over her face, searching, as if surprised. “Of course.”

She turned back to Iron Bull. “If we’re not back in a few hours, send someone down to the Deep Roads entrance we took to the rift.”

“Everything all right? You need back-up?”

She shook her head, stepping back as Solas rose. “It’s nothing important. Just make sure they leave the gates open for us.”

“You know,” Sera said with a wide grin, balancing her tankard on her lap as she leaned back against a stack of crates, “you don’t have to go all the way down into that piss-hole just to have Solas check out your rash, Inquisitor, I’m sure your room would work fine to examine your holy lady b—”

Roslyn flicked her hand before she could finish. A small brush of force energy flew into Sera’s tankard, causing it to tip and spill ale all over her stomach and pants. Roslyn turned as the elf jumped into the air, shouting, “Ah, fuck! Andraste’s soggy cunt!”

“Sweet girl,” Roslyn murmured with a sideways grin as she walked easily through the still-open gates, Solas close behind. “So clumsy, though.”

“Careful, Inquisitor,” he answered, amusement lifting the corner of his mouth, “or you will find yourself on the receiving end of one of Sera’s ingenious pranks.”

“As long as I don’t find any lizards in my small-clothes, I think I’ll be all right.”

Solas hummed a soft laugh, but said nothing else.

She kept her gaze forward as they walked out of the keep, following the road down to Crestwood. They lapsed into silence as they walked, and Roslyn distracted herself by staring off in the direction of the setting sun. The tops of the mountains glittered with orange and purple light, casting a soft, shifting haze over the rustling wildflowers. Bugs buzzed through the grass and around her legs, lazy in their final moments of daylight. Vestiges of the day’s warmth still hung in the air, though a small chill was beginning to seep up from the earth and ghost over the still lake, fog swirling off its surface in faint eddies.

“This place is striking at sunset.”

She turned to find Solas watching her out of the corner of his eye.

“It is,” she agreed, looking away before her discomfort showed.

It wouldn’t be so strange to ask him about Isahn. He had joined the Inquisition, after all. It made sense that she would want to know as much as she could about a stranger who had turned up out of the blue to offer his aid.

_This is idiotic,_ she thought, clenching her jaw. _Just fucking ask him._

He kept silent as they made their way down to the edge of the village, until she turned from the main road and started down the winding side path to the lake.

“Are you avoiding the topic of your new recruit for my benefit?”

She came to a stop a few feet down the path, turning back to him with an arched brow. “Do I need to?”

He came to a smooth stop, arms held behind his back. But his eyes were bright, unguarded—if he _had_ been avoiding her today, it seemed that he’d decided to stop now.

“No,” he finally murmured.

“Can you blame me?” She exhaled and tucked a few errant curls behind her ears, some of her tension fading with relief. “You’re not exactly forthcoming about your past.”

His mouth twisted into a tight smile, and he inclined his head. “That is fair.”

She waited for him to continue, but when he remained silent, she stepped toward him and lowered her voice. “Look, I don’t know him, and he means about as much to me as any other idiot I might meet on the road. If he makes you uncomfortable, I’ll ask him to leave.”

He studied her face, his lips parting in surprise, before he cleared his throat. “That is not necessary, Inquisitor.”

“It doesn’t have to be. I’d still do it.”

In the dim light of the setting sun, his eyes were dark and impossibly deep. A faint line appeared in his brow, and he tilted his head. It took him a moment, but he said, “He is a skilled fighter. Whatever his intent in pledging himself to you, he can be trusted in battle.”

“Do you think he’s spying on me, trying to gather information for someone?”

“I don’t believe so. Though it has been—many years since we last met. I won’t claim to be sure of anything where he is concerned.”

She nodded, wondering at his clipped tone. He was clearly being polite for her benefit. 

“He,” she hesitated, not wanting to push him, “he recognized the _Vir Ghen’aran_ when I was practicing. He said it was a part of—,” frowning, she tried to remember the correct pronunciation, “ _Dirth’ena Enasalin?_ I think?”

Solas exhaled a sharp laugh, a dark, knowing look passing over his face. “Of course he did.”

“Then you know what he was talking about?”

He nodded. “ ‘Knowledge that leads to victory.’ It is the term for the discipline of the Arcane Warrior, an order of soldiers with unparalleled skill dating back to the time of Elvhenan. I believe the last of them were killed in the Second Exalted March on the Dales, the practice lost to all but a few who guard the secret jealously.”

She took a breath, the knowledge that her fumbling practice had such a rich, storied history casting it in an entirely different light. _Arcane Warriors_ , she thought, remembering her old stable-master’s far-fetched tales, of elven knights more fierce and mighty than the most honorable chevalier. Of Lindiranae, the last guardian of the Dales.

“You knew this when you taught me?”

“It is a useful skillset for any mage who channels their magic internally rather than through a focus.” He paused, as if waiting for her to react. When she just arched a brow, he continued, “Tevinter stole many things from my people. I recognized the forms from my studies in the Fade, assumed you had learned of the translated art, and thought you would appreciate the true knowledge.”

She frowned. “He said my technique was bad.”

A slow, almost begrudging smile spread over his lips. “Does that bother you?”

“I should think it would bother _you_ , considering you were the one who taught me.”

He tilted his head noncommittally. “I am not a master of the discipline and I did not think you would mind a simpler approach.”

Her lips pursed as she tried to ignore her annoyance. “So is Isahn a master, then?”

The quick humor vanished from his expression. “He was, when I knew him,” he said reluctantly. “It is not a life one leaves behind easily.”

Her mind latched on to the knowledge. He was an asshole, sure, but the way he had fought… _Arcane Warrior_. The only other discipline she’d heard of that taught mages to fight in a martial style was that of the Knight Enchanter, the divine’s personal bodyguards and the Chantry’s most lethal and specialized task force. She knew Vivienne had studied with them for a while when she was younger, and had considered broaching the topic once or twice over the past few months.

But the idea of tying herself so thoroughly to the Chantry, when it was already hard enough to convince people that she was not just another pawn in a millennia-old dance of oppression and faith used as a scythe, was abhorrent.

If Isahn knew another way… _Elven_. Like the anchor.

“Well, let’s keep going,” she finally said, not meeting Solas’s gaze as she turned back to the path. “We’re losing light.”

The brush grew thicker the farther off the main road they went, skirting a large cliff that hung over the edge of the lake. The entrance to the Deep Roads sat above what had once been Old Crestwood, before the mayor had ordered the villagers quarantined with the Blight to be drowned when he sealed the dam.

“I have noticed that something has been bothering you the past few days.”

Roslyn stopped before hopping down to the mud that stretched across an eerie landscape. Broken, drooping houses and piles of damp bones rose out of the ground like misshapen lumps.

Turning, she found one of his brows raised, his expression one of innocent curiosity. “Had you?” she asked.

“I would offer you my ear, if you wish to unburden yourself.”

Her chest constricted slightly. She blinked, trying to keep her expression from betraying her surprise at him guessing at her mood. 

Of course there was something bothering her. There were lots of things bothering her, and most of them involved _him_. She couldn’t exactly confide in him that she suspected he thought she was an ignorant fool, after what he’d said of the Grey Wardens two days ago. That she knew nothing of him or his past beyond the few small details he’d reluctantly offered. That she still couldn’t look at him without a desperate voice in the back of her mind insisting that she would never accept just being his…friend.

“That’s kind of you, but I’m fine,” she murmured, trying to keep her voice level. “There’s just been a lot on my mind lately.”

His eyes held hers as he nodded in understanding.

“I might take you up on that in the future,” she added, before she could stop herself, “when I’ve—settled. I’m finding it hard to muster a good mood these days. I know I’m not exactly pleasant to be around.”

A slow smile tugged at his lips. “I would disagree with that assessment. I find your company entirely diverting.”

Nerves curled around the base of her spine, but she brushed them away. It was stupid to get so worked up over a simple compliment. One he most likely didn’t mean as she wanted to take it.

To distract herself, she eased off the outcropping and onto the mud flats of Old Crestwood, giving herself one brief moment to collect her emotions before they spilled out in a mess. The wolf brushed against the back of her mind and she focused on it, grounding herself in something other than the implication that Solas enjoyed her company.

Of course he enjoyed her company. She enjoyed his company. It wasn’t so strange for him to say it out loud.

“Though,” he added as she turned back, before she could so much as open her mouth to respond, “I wonder why you would ask me to join you tonight, if you were so disinclined. Would you rather not be alone?”

“Not right now,” she said smoothly, watching him as he crouched and paused before following her down to the mud. “But if my _company_ is too much of a distraction, you are more than welcome to go back to Caer Bronach.”

He waited, eyes sparking as one side of his mouth lifted in a half-smile. “I did not say that you were an unwelcome distraction.”

Heat danced in her chest and she exhaled. That Maker-damned smile… “You’re not saying a lot of things, Solas,” she murmured before she could stop herself.

His smile faded as he slid off the outcropping, lithely stepping down beside her, all the while holding her gaze. Beside the cliff, which was blocking the last rays of sunlight, his face was half in shadow. He stepped closer, and the space between them grew taut as he straightened.

“Allow me to elucidate, then,” he said in his low, lilting voice, the sound practically vibrating through the air. “I don’t make it a habit to remain where I do not want to be, neither do I stay when it is clear my presence is unwanted.”

Something small and faint fluttered in her chest, and her throat tightened. 

_Maker’s breath._

When he spoke again, his voice was soft. “If you want me to join you, Inquisitor, I am happy to join you. No matter your disposition.”

She stood rooted in place, trying to think of something to say.

He considered her for a moment, something flashing in his eyes, and stepped back. “Come, we should move quickly. I would rather not linger long in the Deep Roads past sunset. While the tunnels might be clear for now, I fear that will not stay true for long.”

Roslyn forced herself to move, mind racing as she turned over his words. 

Did he mean to imply that he was happy here, in the Inquisition? Or with her, as a friend?

_Or,_ she thought, _does he mean that he enjoys being alone with me?_

They made their way across the mud flats in silence, Roslyn unable to tear her eyes from the back of his head, as if she might be able to pry open his thoughts and force them out if she stared hard enough. By the time they reached the entrance to the tunnels, she was frowning so thoroughly she thought her forehead might cramp.

He pulled the iron door open, still wet from the lake water it had been submerged in for the past decade. “After you,” he said mildly.

“Thank you,” she said after a moment, pulling her gaze away before ducking into the doorway.

Roslyn squinted into the darkness, raising her hand and prodding the anchor. The wolf rose and paced around her, catching the thread of her frustration. It considered her, before it turned its attention to the cave. Apparently the confusing swirl of emotions she was currently trying to quell did not interest it.

The light ghosted off the shining walls, warped and bisected by long, bubbled stalactites. Even though they had made their way down the passage only a few days ago, Roslyn suppressed a shiver. She hated being underground. It wasn’t claustrophobia, exactly, but she disliked the idea of not being able to see something coming for her, of having to hold her breath around every turn in case something foul waited for her in the darkness.

She clenched her jaw at the memory of the dwarf’s dagger digging into her back, swallowed down her immediate spike of fear.

“The tunnels should be clear, for now,” Solas murmured as he stepped to her side, clearly noticing her discomfort. “I don’t think we’ll encounter any more of the undead villagers, at the very least.”

She gave him a nod and took a deep, steadying breath. Her awareness spread out to probe for any demons that might have lingered after she’d closed the rift. The wolf sensed nothing, and neither did she. 

Though, she realized with apprehension, any darkspawn they might encounter would not register, and she hadn’t sensed the red templars until they were practically on top of her. _Sloppy_. Her senses were not the guarantee she’d once thought them.

She was glad when Solas followed her lead and unhooked his staff from behind his back. With her sword drawn and her left hand raised and ready, they would be fine.

They went quickly with just the two of them, not having to deal with Sera’s muttered curses or Iron Bull’s frequent acrobatics to maneuver his horns through the tight spaces. The cavern walls smoothed the farther down they went. Pale rock bled into gleaming surfaces of red, straight lines of molten stone rising up to ceilings nearly fifty feet high. The slick marble floor was covered in debris, but it was obvious this place had once been pristine. With all the chaos of their previous sojourn into the caves, she’d missed the engravings on the walls—runic letters molded in metal and carved through stone that flickered in the light of her mark. Grand statues towered over the wide corridors, and she marveled at the idea of dwarves building anything so massive.

“Do you remember where you sensed the artifact?” Solas asked as they stopped in the entrance of what might have been a great hall or a highway, Roslyn couldn’t tell which.

“No, I just thought we’d poke around for a bit. Bound to stumble onto something interesting at some point.” She walked away without waiting for him to respond, fighting a smile.

“A solid plan,” he said pleasantly as he followed her into another corridor off the main, where they had previously the rage demon and the summoning circle.

“You can’t sense it yourself, oh great elven scholar?” She chanced a look at him only to find him watching her, that damn smirk on his face again. “Or do you need to see it in the Fade first?”

“You are doing so well without my help,” he said, brow arched. “I would not presume to interfere.”

She tried not to laugh, but only managed a mangled snort before she looked away. “It’s in the next room over behind some rubble.”

“Ah, that would explain why I missed it the first time.” At her questioning look, he said, “I’ve found the stones the ancient dwarves used to craft these roads counteract most magic that originates in the Fade.”

Roslyn frowned when she came upon the small room, rubble blocking the doorway. “Really? I felt it right away.”

Even now, the soft whispering of spirits clinging to the node of potential energy on the other side of the Veil brushed up against her aura. It was darker than usual, heavy with the lingering taint of the demons who had stalked these halls, the fear and rage and grief of the people who had been trapped in the caves above.

“You have the anchor,” Solas said simply.

_That I do_ , she thought with a sigh, the wolf reaching forward curiously to examine the source of the new energy.

Before she could move to summon the magic necessary to remove the rubble from the door, Solas stepped forward. He clenched his fist, aura swelling with a wave of pine smoke and peppermint, a soft whisper that ran down her spine, and swept his hand up in release. The stones shifted easily, falling to either side as a bubble of force spread them out smoothly from the doorway.

Roslyn did her best to ignore the way her own aura rose and sparked at the touch of his. It was easier, when they were fighting together, to ignore the familiarity of its touch. Standing side by side with no one else around them made things…more difficult.

The wolf turned and sniffed, curiosity flickering as it registered the intensity of Solas’s aura.

She gave a small, but insistent, tug on the wolf, trying to pull it away. It turned in frustration, not understanding why she was being so ridiculous. _Sorry, friend,_ she thought, trying to convey the need for it to just let its curiosity go. _I can’t have you getting attached too._

Especially since at this point she was pretty sure Solas would just think it was _her_ probing his aura. Or, she thought with a frown, maybe he would feel something else entirely. If it was a spirit, she supposed it should feel differently. And the conversation about what she’d really done in Redcliffe would come all the more quickly.

“I never see you use force when you fight,” she said, trying to distract herself from the reality of that future conversation. “Why is that?”

He turned to her with a blank expression. “I—had not realized I hadn’t.”

She arched an eyebrow at him as she stepped toward the door. “I was just curious.”

“No, of course.” His brow furrowed. “Perhaps I found it redundant. You tend to employ it so…creatively, that I prefer to direct my energies elsewhere.”

“That makes sense,” she offered.

She’d never thought it worth mentioning before. He usually held back in fights, controlling the field with ice and electricity, focusing on spiritual boons for his party. Though she had seen him cast with flame before. In truth, she’d never met anyone who was able to flow so seamlessly from one school of magic to the next.

He treated casting as if it were all a part of one whole, picking and choosing which tool to use on different enemies. Most mages could switch between two or three, with an affinity for one. Roslyn was strange in that she was only proficient in arcane offensive magic and force, or the manipulation of her own aura, which was hardly a branch of study in the Circle.

She grinned when he remained silent, cocking her head to the side. “Thank you for calling me creative, by the way. It’s a bit of an exaggeration, but I’ll take it.”

His eyes refocused then, the light from her anchor flickering against them and making them reflect in the dim light. “You are. I have not met anyone who wielded their magic like you do.”

“Never?” she asked skeptically, turning and ducking into the small room. She snorted at the idea. 

It was stacked with old chests and smelled faintly of ash, as if something had burned recently. The slow drip of water that echoed through the empty halls faded as she moved further into the room. Her mark flashed once, casting everything in sharp relief. Her eyes settled on a sliver of green hidden behind dust-covered boxes made of obsidian that probably contained old family trinkets and long-lost dwarven valuables.

“Is it really so unbelievable to think yourself unique in your abilities?”

Roslyn froze in the act of shifting boxes, turning over her shoulder to look at Solas. He stood in the doorway, brilliant blue light emanating from the end of his staff. Trails of sparks danced around the center stone like fireflies.

There was no amusement in his expression, no glinting tease, but an intensity at odds with the subject of their conversation.

She straightened and frowned. “I—I mean I’ve always known I couldn’t do the same things the other mages in my tower. The Circle wasn’t exactly welcoming of someone who had a hard time conjuring flame but enjoyed jumping off the lower towers during her free time.”

His mouth twitched, but he remained silent.

She exhaled, forcing herself to hold his gaze. “You know I’ve never been particularly comfortable with my magic. But…” She shrugged, trying not to let the self-loathing overwhelm her. Even after everything, it was hard to let go of the idea that she wasn’t just a little freak whom no one understood. “It’s never been something I questioned. It’s just…what I know. You’ve really never met anyone else who casts like I do? In all your wanderings through the Fade and beyond?” she added, letting a smile curl her lips.

He took a long time to respond, eyes tight while he weighed his words. “When I watch you use magic, I don’t see a mage casting spells, manipulating the Veil. It’s as if—” He hesitated, brow furrowing. “It is as if the Veil poses no barrier to you, even when you don’t draw on the anchor. You wield magic as easy as you breathe. I don’t think you understand how…rare that is.”

She waited for the clinical gleam in his eyes, the curiosity that would tell her that, once again, she was just something fascinating to file away for his future perusal.

But it didn’t come.

“You’ve told me this before,” she said, unable to think past the strange light in his eyes.

He looked down with a tight smile. “I have. I’m sorry for repeating the mistake. I know you dislike such claims.”

She watched him move forward to help her shift boxes. Her chest tightened, and she suddenly found it very difficult not to reach for his hand. He’d been so closed off to her for so long that this…honesty struck her as entirely too significant.

Bending to help him, the question rising from that hesitant, fragile place she should have killed long ago, she asked, “What do you see when you watch me, then?”

Solas was silent for a long time. She almost expected him not to answer, chastising herself for even thinking to ask. This line of thought tread too close to places better left alone. It pulled too keenly at strings she’d already severed and shrugged off.

The artifact was fully uncovered now, letting off a faint hum that made her keenly aware of his aura. She reached to activate it.

But then he went still, and turned to her, expression determined. “I see a woman holding tightly to herself as if she might burst from joy or madness if she does not find release. I see a warrior who trails light in her wake and shakes the ground with her steps. I see,” he hesitated, his low, lilting voice breaking ever so slightly on the last, “I see a spirit undiminished by form, shaping the world through her sheer existence.”

Somewhere in the back of her mind that too-familiar warning peeled its urgent alarm, her body braced, preparing itself for impact—an urge speeding toward her and threatening to swallow her whole.

But the reverence in his voice, the question in his eyes, made her abandon all sense.

Her aura swelled and the wolf answered, swept up in the tide of her emotions breaking through her feeble barrier. The anchor sparked and burst, flooding the small room with radiant green light. The elven artifact popped and crackled to life, not activated, but excited, reacting to the Fade energy filling the air around it.

The moment her aura hit his, the impact rushed through her chest, heat curling down her spine. Her lips parted and she exhaled in a shaky, shocked sigh. _Andraste’s mercy_ , she’d forgotten…

She took a hasty breath to clear her mind, to regain some control over her aura, but the taste of his magic spread over her tongue, sharp peppermint and smoky pine.

For one suspended moment, his aura answered, an echo of what they’d shared nearly a year ago in the Fade—and she forgot that they were down some dank hole in the middle of a dwarven ruin. She was spiraling, weightless, buffeted by the thread that sang between them. Flashes of emotion, _his_ emotion, raced through her over the connection, and she tried to grab at them, but they danced away and faded like embers in the wind.

He pulled back, not in the same violent shove that had nearly broken her before, but gently, insistently—and she could think again.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, stepping away and turning quickly to the door. “I forgot myself.”

She let her aura recede, the frighteningly potent swell already fading. The wolf paced in her mind, a new kind of frustration simmering in its emotions. It had no idea what was happening, and she didn’t blame it one bit for being pissed off. For wanting that chaos of sensation again. 

“It’s all right.” Her voice was surprisingly level as she turned back to the artifact. Some part of her was still reeling, trying to make sense of what he’d just said to her.

Those were not the words of a friend. Not any friend she’d had.

She let the wolf reach out for the artifact at last. It connected, sending a rush of energy through her body, cool and fresh, and entirely different from the heady atmosphere that had filled the room with the mingling of their auras. The heavy weight of the Veil fell over her shoulders, grounding her, letting her focus.

It helped to order her thoughts, to settle the disbelief and shock.

She turned back to Solas, only to find his expression cool and detached, the mask she knew too well firmly in place. His hands curled firmly around his staff, and his shoulders were held back in a stiff, locked stance.

He was gone again, just as quickly.

“We should get back to the surface,” she murmured, watching him closely. “I think you’re right—we shouldn’t linger here for too long. I’m not particularly interested in explaining to a search party that we snuck into the Deep Roads to mess around with an ancient elven ball.”

Solas opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated, focused on whatever he found in her gaze. “Indeed,” he finally managed.

“Thank you for coming with me, Solas.” 

“Of course. I—would like to return here before we leave. To measure the artifact’s effectiveness.”

“All right,” she said, watching him for any sign of that surge of emotion.

“You won’t need to be present, if that is easier for you. I know you’ll have plenty to occupy your time before we return to Skyhold.”

“I’d feel more comfortable if you didn’t come down here alone, even if it isn’t with me,” she said, stepping further out into the hallway and arching one brow when he remained in the small room.

Roslyn didn’t speak on their walk home, and this time Solas made no effort to prod her into conversation, but his gaze remained on her as they walked, searching, intent. 

She retired at once for her rooms, leaving him standing in the courtyard of Caer Bronach with Iron Bull and a few of the Chargers, the majority of the keep already settling down for the night.

The moment she closed the door of her room, she leaned against it, letting her head fall back to rest against the cold wood.

His voice drifted through her mind, low and lilting and stirring that flickering light in her chest. 

No, those were not the words of a friend. But neither were they an invitation. They were just…damned confusing. 


	22. Better Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Could Have Been Me" by The Struts](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O4OIqbBRRZA&index=22&t=0s&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S)

Roslyn spent most of the night trying in vain to sleep. Her mind kept returning to Solas’s words, running them over and over again. Trying to persuade herself they weren’t true. 

If he didn’t want to indulge his feelings for her, whatever they might be, it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t force him into anything, and she wasn’t about to convince him to…

What? What kind of relationship could she have, anyway? She was one moment of bad luck away from death on her good days. Coryphea might have gone to ground, but she wouldn’t remain hidden forever. And the second she resurfaced, anyone Roslyn held dear would be thrust into danger. She was a vortex drawing death and destruction. No matter what happened, she would be there to stop whatever madness the ancient magister thought up next. She’d decided, the moment she went back to face that dragon in Haven, that her life was forfeit to ensure the Inquisition’s survival.

She wouldn’t put that on someone else, especially someone who seemed so conflicted about her to begin with. He might be fond of her, it might even go further than that, but he’d made it abundantly clear that it wasn’t _right_. Or he didn’t think it was. 

And no matter how much she wanted him, she didn’t want _that_. She didn’t want someone fighting themselves at every turn. Any relationship with Solas would be complicated at best, built on secrets and the knowledge that there was somewhere else he was needed enough for him to leave the Inquisition—whatever that meant. He wanted to be here, he’d said that much, but she didn’t know if that meant that he wanted _her_.

She just couldn’t see him settling down into a sunny future with domestic bliss.

And, for fuck’s sake, neither could she see herself content to grow fat and happy with children and learn to cook, living out a mundane life. Feeling safe enough to build a family with anyone else, let alone Solas.

Peace and comfort were so far beyond her understanding that the very idea was impossible. She’d never been meant for that life. She might have wanted normalcy before becoming Inquisitor, like one might wish to be rich or have wings to fly. But it wasn’t reality. It wasn’t attainable. It was a child whispering in the dark for someone to save them from the torment of an evil older sister, a young girl begging for justice for the boy ripped from her arms and turned into an unfeeling shell. It was a fanciful wish. And that was all.

So what was left for her? Stolen moments between fights, trying to balance that level of intimacy with another person while running an organization responsible for the safety of all of Thedas? Trying to be with someone while constantly under threat of death?

She didn’t even know if she could reach that level of trust anymore. Even after eight years, she still balked at letting anyone become what Jonas had been. At letting anyone become important enough to hurt her so deeply. She didn’t believe that loving someone else made one weak, not really. But opening herself up to that kind of vulnerability, even allowing herself to think it... 

Solas was a fantasy. And indulging in it, in _him_ , only made her life more difficult.

Roslyn rose the next morning, tired, confused, and utterly incapable of thinking beyond the next few minutes. As she made her way down to the courtyard, a voice whispered in the back of her mind that she might not have a choice in what he became, that she might have already made that mistake.

As if conjured by thought alone, she caught sight of him sitting to the side of the morning fire with Charter. She silently thanked the Maker that Iron Bull was nowhere in sight. Charter might catch every emotion that flashed across her face, but she wasn’t an ass about it.

“Morning,” Roslyn said brightly, perhaps a bit too brightly, as both elves turned to her.

Solas rose, inclining his head. His eyes lingered a moment too long on her face, not enough time for her to gauge whatever was held in their storm-grey depths. “Inquisitor.”

Charter just looked up, waiting.

“Have we heard anything from our Grey Warden friend?”

Charter shook her head, rising fluidly and throwing the scraps of her breakfast back onto the fire. “I can send Butcher to check on him.”

“No,” Roslyn said, frowning, “I told Rainier he had the week, so let’s give him the week. We haven’t seen them try to flee, have we?”

“No, my lady. Two agents have been watching the entrance to the cave for the past three days. They come in and out to hunt, but otherwise make no move to run. My guess is they’re making full use of the time they have left together.”

Roslyn’s eyes widened in surprise, and she saw Solas try to hide a smirk. “How scandalous, Charter.”

The elf merely held her gaze, her freckled face impassive but for a slight twist to her mouth. “It’s what I’d do if I were about to say goodbye to my wife with no guarantee that we’d both live long enough to see each other again.”

Roslyn hummed in agreement as Charter left, hyper-aware of Solas standing next to her.

“She’s an odd one,” Roslyn mused, if only to fill the silence. “As soon as I think she’s this stone-cold badass, she comes out and proves she has a heart.”

Solas nodded, but said nothing.

He watched her, wary, like she’d peeled back some piece of his armor and now he was compensating by tracking her every movement and word. She’d expected him to ignore her, or treat her with cold civility, like he had in Haven. But this cautious attention was something altogether more confusing.

“I had a thought,” Roslyn forced herself to say. “But I wanted to run it by you first.”

He waited, brow furrowed as he read the hesitation in her gaze.

“You said Isahn was a master of this… _Dirth’ena Enasalin_.” She frowned. She would need to start figuring out how to pronounce elven correctly if she was going to keep speaking it. “Do you think—would he be opposed to teaching me?”

A new kind of tension entered Solas’s shoulders, and his expression tightened.

“I just—thought that maybe it might help.”

“Help?”

She exhaled, casting her gaze once over the courtyard to ensure no one was too close to hear. It wasn’t as if it was a secret, she just didn’t like the idea of her people knowing she was struggling with anything, let alone something this trivial.

“I’ve been feeling edgy, like I have too much energy and I can’t work it out of my system. The swordplay helps, a bit.” She swallowed the bundle of nerves in her throat. She hadn’t brought up her mark since Redcliffe, and she didn’t know if he wanted to revisit the subject. “Ever since Haven, when—the anchor responded to Coryphea’s attempts to take it from me, I’ve felt restless. It’s like I’m taking in too much magic, and no matter how much I cast, I can’t settle.”

His expression was impassive, clinical, as if he were trying very hard not to react.

“I can control it,” she added when he didn’t say anything. “It’s nothing like—how it used to be. I’m just distracted.”

“You think the anchor is to blame?” he asked carefully.

She held his gaze, wondering if this was a terrible idea and she shouldn’t just leave now before she made a fool of herself. “I am sure there are plenty of reasons why I feel restless, but I think the anchor isn’t helping. All I know is that I don’t get tired the way I used to after a fight or a training session. There’s no,” she hesitated, and her mind supplied the word without thought, “release.”

_Maker’s balls_ , she thought in frustration as heat curled around her spine. _Get your mind out of the gutter._

If he caught her reference to his proclamation the previous night, he didn’t show it, though the corners of his mouth tightened.

“If you don’t think it would help, I won’t,” she said, silently begging him to say something rather than just stare at her. “I don’t know anything about the Arcane Warriors. I don’t even know if it’s something that I’d be good at.”

“You would,” he said without hesitation.

She blinked, breathed out in relief. “You think?”

He nodded, eyes bright with something she couldn’t read. “The Arcane Warriors crafted their bodies into weapons, channeling magic through their limbs as well as their blades, one foot in the Fade and one without. They were bastions of power, unparalleled on a field of battle. Or so some thought.”

“Not you?” she asked, hearing the tight note in his voice.

“I think there are many different approaches to battle, and not all require the use of direct force.” He paused, and a smile tugged at his lips. “I think you would be perfectly suited to such a discipline.”

She snorted, tension bleeding from her as she caught his humor, held it like a lifeline. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.”

His eyes softened. “It is.”

She took a deep breath, considering. “You think Isahn would agree to train me?”

The idea was hard to let go. It sounded ideal—she already cast in a similar way, even if it was mostly intuitive.

And the elf’s lethality, the grace in his every movement… Well, Roslyn had never been one for grace, but if she could learn a fraction of that coiled strength, it would be worth it.

“Isahn is a—,” Solas hesitated, frowning, eyes deep in thought, “singularly focused individual. He was impressed by you, even if he implied otherwise. I think he would not be opposed to the idea.”

She arched a brow, fighting the urge to ask him about their shared past. “Impressed, was he?”

Solas’s eyes refocused on her, spark of interest catching in their depths. “Does that change your opinion of him?”

She grinned at the clipped note in his voice, his obvious intent. “I am remarkably vain,” she murmured slowly, “so it helps.”

A quick grin, and he re-schooled his features. “Of course, how could I forget?”

They spoke for a while about Crestwood, skirting the topic of his going back down to the Deep Roads to study the elven artifact. When Iron Bull and the Chargers joined them, most of them looking bleary-eyed like they’d over-indulged the night before, she left Solas to go find Isahn, mentally running through the list of things she still needed to settle before leaving Crestwood.

She didn’t want to leave so soon, but she knew that the threat of whatever the Grey Wardens were planning was more important than helping one village get back on its feet. And there were more rifts she needed to close before she could return to Skyhold.

The plan was to take the Chargers and a few agents with her and work as fast as she could along the eastern coast of Lake Calenhad and the outskirts of the Bannorn, while the rest of her party either remained to get Caer Bronach into working condition as a formal branch of the Inquisition, or returned to Skyhold.

_Piece by piece_ , she thought, smiling at the idea of them working out of two distinct strongholds beyond Skyhold. _We might actually turn ourselves into a power to contend with._

Steeling her courage, she wandered off into the surrounding hills to find Isahn, with her sword belted firmly at her waist and her senses thrown out to warn her of any approaching red templars. It wouldn’t work on anything else, but the bandits in this area were not so subtle that she wouldn’t hear them coming.

She found him sitting cross-legged on a cliff overlooking the lake, the mid-morning sun illuminating his face and casting his tattoos in a brighter light. Roslyn slowed as she approached, not wanting to disturb him in his meditation.

Her eyes wandered over the tattoos, trying to discern the pattern in the spiraling ink. Over his left eye crossed something that might have been flame or a bundle of snakes, while a cross-work of lines spread over the right side of his face and down his neck. He had discarded his hooded jacket, and wore only a simple linen shift, sleeveless and loose, tucked into leather pants. The ink trailed down his arms and over his hands, sometimes fluid, bowing lines, and other times that flickering dance of filigree. A play of rigid order and spinning flame.

“Are you intrigued by my _vallaslin_ , Inquisitor, or by my dashing profile?” he asked suddenly, not opening his eyes or looking to where she stood about twenty feet away.

She bit back her smile. Even if he was an ass, he was clever about it. “Perhaps I am paying you back for spying on me the other day.”

“Then you are too late. I finished with the rock-throwing hours ago.”

She walked forward, standing in front of him until he opened his eyes. “I had something I wanted to ask you.”

“Did you? Here I thought it was your custom to ogle and interrupt strangers in their morning vigil. Now I feel special.”

She waited, determined not to speak until he opened his eyes.

Finally, and with a great sigh, he did so, his expression serene. “Ask away, Inquisitor, since you seem intent on depriving me of my solitude.”

“Solas tells me you’re a master of that _Dirth’ena Enasalin_ you mentioned the other day. An Arcane Warrior.”

He blinked slowly, languorously, like a cat eyeing a slow and foolish mouse. “Did he?”

“I was wondering if you still practiced.”

He grinned. “I do.” Getting to his feet and stepping toward her, she realized that he was, indeed, quite a bit taller than she was—taller even than Solas.

Were city elves just shorter than their Dalish counterparts? Solas might not be Dalish but he certainly wasn’t like the other elves she’d met in the Circle or the Inquisition, most of whom, as far as she knew, came from alienages. Her mind wandered back to a conversation they’d had in the Hinterlands, joking about the larger size of wilder elfroot compared to its domesticated cousin.

Again, she wondered how he and Solas had met, if it had anything to do with their apparent disregard for typical elven physiology, or if she was just spinning justifications and questions in some unconscious effort to drive herself mad. Probably the latter.

“Is that something you can teach?” she asked, keeping her voice calm, measured.

He tilted his head, considered her. “It is. In fact, I was very good at it in another life.”

“How long ago was that other life?”

His grin turned practically saccharine as he revealed his teeth.

She didn’t know if it was supposed to be intimidating, but she had to fight the swell of nerves it roused in her gut.

“Not long enough to dampen my skill, I assure you.”

“Would you be opposed to teaching me?”

“I would not,” he answered without a moment’s hesitation, satisfaction shining in his eyes.

Her eyes narrowed. “You don’t seem surprised that I asked.”

“I told you I was watching you, Inquisitor. When I saw you fight I realized you’d found your way into an imitation of the art I worked a long time to perfect.” He shrugged. “I consider it my duty to ensure that my people’s legacy is not twisted by ignorance.”

She fought to keep her frustration from showing on her face.

She must have failed, however, because his smile softened and he clicked his tongue. “I meant no offense, Inquisitor. There are only a handful of my order alive today and the _Dirth’ena Enasalin_ might die out in a few generations if the knowledge is not shared. That you were attempting it at all is—comforting.”

She blinked, reconciling her anger with the surprising gratitude in his eyes. “Well. Good.”

He was still watching her, but his calculating expression had shifted to one of curiosity, consideration. “You are not what I expected.”

“And what did you expect?” she said, trying to keep ahold of her annoyance.

What had the world managed to convey to him that she was so far from his initial assumption of her? She could imagine the slights, the rumors swirling about the mad, half-elf apostate who played at being Inquisitor. She remembered the letters after they’d first arrived at Skyhold, that insinuated it must be a joke Josephine was playing on the world at large. How could someone like her possibly command something so significant as the Inquisition?

Somehow, he had managed to both insult and compliment her in the same breath. He wanted to train her, and yet he was content to call her ignorant and tease her to the point of frustration.

Isahn’s eyes were bright as he turned and resumed his cross-legged position, tilting his head toward the sun. “You have two days to prepare as best you are able, and then we start.”

She exhaled, not bothering to ask why in Maker’s name he didn’t want to just start right then, if he felt so strongly about correcting her ignorance.

As she made her way back to Caer Bronach, trying to dislodge the lingering annoyance in her chest, she now understood why Solas might have wanted to kill his old acquaintance at first sight.

 

~  ✧ ~

 

Roslyn had just set the last of her evening’s paperwork down, ready to collapse onto her cot and attempt to sleep, when a light, dancing knock sounded on her door. 

She bit back her sigh. “Yes?”

“I seem to have found myself with a bottle of wine and two empty glasses. Imagine my embarrassment when I realized that I had no one to share them with.” Hawke paused, cleared his throat. “I wondered if you might be willing to help a poor lad out of his predicament?”

Roslyn just stared at the door, having a hard time believing anyone was this oblivious. “That does sound tragic,” she finally called, leaning back in her chair.

“Doesn’t it? Inquisitor, I swear to you, I would not bother you unless the situation was dire.”

She bit her lip against the grin threatening to spill into her voice. “Of course. I wouldn’t expect anything else from such a noble man as you.”

“You dirty flatterer,” Hawke practically purred, a soft thud and tap sounding against the door, as if he were pawing at it.

“I’m not letting you in, Hawke.”

“Oh, come on. I brought wine. That has to count for something.”

“And where did you get the wine?”

“I took it from the abandoned inn on the dam, of course.”

“You stole it.”

He sighed dramatically, and Roslyn had to force herself not to laugh as she rose to open the door.

“I take back my assessment of you from the other day. You really are as boring as—”

He nearly fell forward when she pulled the door open with a jerk, catching himself on the frame at the last second. “Hello,” he said, a rakish smile sliding across his mouth. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“I’m not interested,” she said in a voice she hoped brokered no argument.

He straightened, glasses clinking in his hand. “You haven’t even heard my proposal.”

“I don’t have to. I’m not interested.”

“Interested in what, exactly? Conversation? Bonding? A bit of light-hearted petting—”

She pushed the door shut with a pleasant smile. “Goodnight, Hawke.”

“Wait,” he said quickly, smile dropping as he wedged his foot in the door. “And don’t blast me onto my ass, please.”

Roslyn arched an eyebrow at him, noting with surprise that there was some fear in his eyes.

He took a deep breath, his face tensing as if he were in pain. “Look, I know you don’t like me very much, but I’m out of options. Sera’s still sick from that dragon blood she drank a few days ago and Iron Bull is playing chess with the hobo elf and while I’d be happy to regale your soldiers with tales of my glorious exploits in Kirwkall and beyond every night for the rest of my life, I’d rather not be in the courtyard right now.”

She took in his discomfort with a small amount of satisfaction. “Your sister is trying to talk to you.”

“My sister is trying to talk to me,” he agreed, embarrassment flickering across his weathered, charming face.

“And you thought you’d avoid her by hiding under my sheets?”

“I mean,” his brow lifted, grin tugging at his lips, “I thought I’d try.”

“Try somewhere else.”

He sighed in acceptance, removing his foot and stepping back into the dimly lit hall. “Right. Sorry to bother you, Inquisitor,” he sketched a short bow, turning with slumped shoulders to walk away.

_Oh, fuck all,_ she thought as sympathy swelled in her chest. She watched him walk to the end of the hall, giving a quick shake of his head before turning the corner.

“What kind of wine?” she called before he could disappear from view.

He stopped and turned, not smiling, but confused. He squinted at the label on the bottle and said, “I have no idea. I think it’s an Orlesian red. The name sure sounds Orlesian. Flamme-something.”

She stared at him, wondering if it might be more prudent to just let him leave and deal with his problems on his own. She’d been lucky enough to avoid rumors this far into her tenure as Inquisitor, and Hawke was nothing if not a beacon for scandal.

But there was something sad in the quirk of his lips, the furrow in his brow. Something she recognized.

She stepped back, pulling the door open with her. “This is not an invitation, and if I hear you bragging about fucking the Inquisitor, I am going to be very cross.”

“Please, my lady,” he said with a smile, this one a bit brighter than the rest, “a gentlemen never fucks and tells.”

“Why do you think I’m warning you?”

He inclined his head. “A fair point.”

She fought the urge to peer down the hallway to make sure no one saw him. It was impossible that Charter didn’t know, or that one of her other agents hadn’t seen him make his way to her room. And, of course, the news would pass to Leliana. 

“Cozy,” Hawke said as she closed the door, brow lifting as he glanced over the crates stacked in the corner and her small cot. “I thought you got top accommodations everywhere you went. You’re Andraste’s holy chosen one. That has to come with some perks.”

“Funny thing about that,” she said, taking the chair by her makeshift desk and shooting him a hard glance when he tried to sit on her cot. “It turns out that there’s no fund in the Chantry budget reserved for saviors.”

“A blasphemy, indeed.” He settled on one of the lower crates, propping one leg up and pulling the cork out of the bottle with his teeth.

She waited while he poured two glasses, grinning when he stopped just short of filling them to the brim.

“To that magnificent beast we felled a few days ago,” he said bombastically, raising his glass.

She hummed noncommittally, taking a small sip. It was a bit sweet, but good.

“Ugh,” Hawke said with a pinched face, shaking his head as he frowned down at the bottle, as if it had just insulted him. “Orlesians and their need for everything to taste sweeter than a honeybee’s piss.”

“I like it.” Her brow furrowed. “Do bees piss?”

“I have no idea. Perhaps we should ask Sera.”

“Not unless you’d like to have her running around screaming and cackling like a toddler the rest of the day. I made that mistake once.”

Hawke grinned, his dark eyes intent on her face as he took another sip. “So. Not a fan of dragons?”

“They’re not high up on my list of interests, no.”

He leaned back, and in the flickering candlelight he looked rather handsome. If she could pretend he were someone else that hadn’t made her life more difficult than it already was the past month. “You looked a bit more than apathetic during that fight.”

Roslyn held his gaze. She debated brushing him off, but whether it was the wine or the sincere interest in his eyes, she decided to give him some of the truth. “It’s hard to see dragons these days and not think of the archdemon that nearly killed me.”

Hawke grunted in agreement, finally looking down. “I can understand that. I saw an archdemon once, you know. Back before my family left Lothering. It was flying back and forth like a vulture for weeks.” He took a shaky breath, unease flickering across his face.

“How long were you in Ferelden during the Blight?”

“Only a few months. Long enough to kill more than my fair share of darkspawn. Not long enough to get killed.”

“Was it really that horrible?” she asked in a low voice. She’d heard stories of the Blight, especially since Ostwick and Kirkwall were the places most Fereldens fled to across the Waking Sea. They’d brought stories of death and disease, of people being consumed by darkness and monsters breaking through the earth to tear anyone they could catch limb from limb.

Hawke’s eyes unfocused as he stared at the ground. “Yes and no. The Blight itself was horrible to see. It turned fields to stinking mires and rivers to tracts of black puss. The country just…died where it spread. But the killing was the same as it always is. The darkspawn might be particularly gruesome in their methods, but war is war.” He looked up. “I don’t have to tell you that, I’m sure. Rumor is you fought in the Mage-Templar War.”

She nodded, considered. “Though it wasn’t really a war. Or I didn’t see that part. The real fighting happened in Orlais, and I spent most of my time in the Free Marches or Nevarra.”

“Still, I heard about Ostwick. Nasty business.”

She waited for the memories to wash over her and drag up the old anger and fear, but she was surprised to feel only a distant pain. It had been a long time since she thought about her Circle’s fall. Her mind was full of other horrors these days. “It can’t have been any worse than Kirkwall.”

Hawke grinned, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re right about that. I think it’s safe to say that Kirkwall has cornered the market on tragedy until the next age.”

“From the way Varric describes it, I’d started to think it wasn’t so bad.”

Hawke laughed, a low, rough rasping sound. “Varric could sell dirt to rats if he put his mind to it. That lovely dwarf is the best shit-peddler I have ever met.” The smile lingered on his lips as he shook his head, affection obvious in his eyes. “And Kirkwall is, and ever will be, his truest love.”

She considered him, catching the twist of ire in his voice. “Not for you?”

His gaze grew distant. “I never really had time to fall in love with the place. I was too busy trying to keep it from falling apart. It’s a shit-hole, but it was my shit-hole, once upon a time.” He finished off his glass, staring into the empty bottom with a frown.

“Why not anymore?” she asked, finding it hard to look away from the sadness and anger in his eyes, the guilt. This was a side of him she’d only caught glimpses of before, when he let that ridiculous grin falter or he thought no one was watching.

“The problem with playing the hero is that eventually you have to stop. The lucky ones get killed in a blaze of glory and don’t have to slink off with their tail between their legs.” He met her gaze with a wry smile, self-loathing glinting in his eyes. “Maker knows, I am not a lucky man.”

“You could have stayed to help rebuild after everything that happened.”

He was silent for a long time, expression hardening as he nodded. “I could have. Maybe it would have helped. But by that point, I’d already done so much damage—” He let out another hollow laugh. “I mean, it was my fault the mages revolted. My fault Meredith went nuts and started killing innocent people.”

Her chest tightened as she heard her own admission to Solas echo in his words— _Helena killed those people because of me. Coryphea attacked Haven to get to me._

“You didn’t blow up the Chantry,” she said.

His whole body tensed at that, his grip tightening over his glass. “No,” he murmured. “No, I didn’t. But I would have, if I’d known.”

Roslyn watched something dark and painful flicker in his eyes, a sadness that went deeper than guilt. “Hawke—”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he said, his voice regaining some of its previous volume and levity, “but my presence doesn’t exactly lend itself to cooperation. It was easy to strong-arm everyone into getting along when the city was on fire, and I was damn good at killing things. Still am.” He winked at her. “But I’ve never been _that_ kind of leader. Ask my sister, I’m sure she’d be more than happy to lay out all the ways I failed her and my brother. Would you believe that she willingly joined the Circle after my mother’s death?”

Her shock must have shown on her face, because Hawke nodded. “She chose to lock herself in a tower rather than live with me. So, you’ll understand why I’m not eager to hash out our long-standing family drama.”

She took a moment to answer, swallowing a flash of anger at the idea that he was somehow put out by the presence of his family. “I wouldn’t actually. Speaking as someone whose only family died when she was five, I find it rather impossible to understand.”

He frowned, though he at least had the grace to look cowed. “Aren’t you a Trevelyan? Isn’t your sister ruling Ostwick right now?”

“Half-sister,” she said, trying to keep her voice level. “And the last time I saw her, she called me a bitch and tried to throw a knife at me.”

Hawke’s expression went slack, eyes darting to her ears where they were hidden under her mass of hair. “Shit. Sorry.”

“You have family, Hawke,” she pressed. “You have a sister who cares enough about you to try and talk to you, and I know you care about your brother, or you wouldn’t have made such a fuss about coming here. I won’t pretend I understand what you’re going through, and I know it must be impossible, but you owe it to yourself to try. Or you owe it to her, at least.”

He just looked at her, seemingly lost in thought.

She finished her glass with one large swig, wiping her mouth and shaking her head when Hawke gestured with the wine bottle.

“About the Grey Wardens—”

“I accept your apology,” she said without letting him finish, setting down her empty glass and smiling at him.

His grin was sharp, but he inclined his head. “Very gracious, as always. Seriously, though,” he added, voice growing hard, “I don’t trust them as far as I can throw them. They’re good people, I’m sure, and I won’t comment on this false Calling, but the Wardens are ruthless. Speaking as someone who once believed them and was soundly betrayed when they realized their heads had been fiddled with, you can never know for sure.” He paused, and once again his eyes flickered with pain. “Even the best of them can’t control themselves if the Taint takes over.”

For a man who seemed more or less committed to the fact that he was hopeless, that pain spoke to something long-buried and raw. “I’ll take that into consideration,” she murmured, wondering who he was thinking about.

His grin was back in a flash. “Spoken like a true politician.”

“Kindly fuck off.”

To her surprise, he corked the wine bottle and set it aside along with his empty glass. His eyes raked over her face, not in flirtation, but curiosity. “So are you actually not interested in me, or just against anything that might distract you from The Cause?”

“You are very secure in your desirability,” she laughed, shifting to fold her legs up on her chair. It was odd, but she found herself enjoying his company. Even if their conversation was rather dark, she felt a connection with him that went beyond sympathy.

The way he talked about Kirkwall, about his failures—it didn’t make her feel better, but it made her feel less alone.

“I _am_ desirable.” He said it so casually, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ve seen you ogling me every now and again. Of course, you look at a lot of people that way. Which leads me back to my original question—is it just me? I won’t be offended if it is. A little put out, sure, but I’d get over it.”

“I’m the Inquisitor,” she said, feeling less steady as she tried to maneuver away from this topic. “Any…relations I have are going to be more complicated than just a quick tumble and a pat on the ass.”

“They don’t have to be,” he said with a crooked smile. “Or did you take a vow of celibacy when you became Herald?”

“I’m not interested in having sex with you, Hawke.”

“That’s fine,” he said, waving off her rejection with an air of frustration as he leaned forward, “but now I’m wondering if you honestly think you can’t have sex because you’re the Inquisitor. You realize that’s not true, right? Plenty of important people get their rocks off on the side. Most find it not only necessary, but beneficial to their focus if they’re not repressing themselves for duty. I, for one, made it a priority.”

She opened her mouth to object, only to hesitate. It wasn’t like she was new to casual sex. Ever since Jonas, that’s all she’d had—a few dalliances with other mages, once a rather awkward encounter in a tavern outside Perendale with a very tall and marginally attractive farmhand who made the most hilarious face when he came. She wasn’t some prude who tittered at the very idea. She just—hadn’t thought about it much with everything that had happened to her since the Conclave. It’s not like she’d had time to stroll the market with an ancient darkspawn magister trying to kill her and suddenly becoming one of the most influential people in Thedas.

_That’s a damn lie_ , she thought immediately, chest warming as she sat under Hawke’s increasingly calculating gaze.

She’d thought about it a lot. She’d had a hard time _not_ thinking about it. She’d thought about it so much that she found it hard to concentrate on anything else and she had, only earlier that day, forced herself not to think about it at all because her duties as Inquisitor might have been much more complicated had she allowed herself to think about— _it_. 

“We are not having this conversation.”

“Come on,” he said gently, actually sounding sincere. “I’m not trying to make you feel uncomfortable. I know you’re on the younger side—”

“Oh, please,” she snapped, reaching for the bottle he’d propped against his crate and pouring herself another glass. “I’m not some blushing virgin.”

He watched her with a wide grin. “Of course you’re not. Silly of me to suggest.”

“And if I’m young, then you’re fucking _old_ ,” she continued, knowing it was a bad idea to keep drinking but suddenly needing something to focus on rather than the growing realization in Hawke’s eyes.

“It’s not just anyone, is it?” he asked after a moment’s silence. “It’s _someone_.”

She didn’t look at him as the warmth in her face continued to rise. _Just the wine,_ she told herself, taking another large sip.

“Shit, it is, isn’t it?” The light in his eyes dimmed then, pity replacing the glee. “Ah, fuck, you’ve gone and let feelings get in the way.”

Her glare was enough of an answer, because he shook his head, tsk-ing with his tongue as he leaned back. “Well, now I understand why you’re so strung up and grumpy. Everyone needs a good tumble from time to time. Muddying up one of life’s fundamental pleasures with feelings is just stupid.”

“You don’t think I know that?” she muttered darkly, fiddling with the end of her braid before she could stop herself.

Hawke took in her sour expression and started laughing. She watched him, the heat in her cheeks receding at the genuine mirth that barreled out of him in waves.

“You owe me for this,” she said when his laughter had faded to weak hiccups.

“I know,” he said with a sigh, eyeing her with, if she wasn’t mistaken, affection. “Believe me, I am well aware of how much I owe you.” At her questioning look, he gave an embarrassed shrug. “I’ve missed being part of something bigger than myself. It’s…nice.”

She smiled, watching the gratitude wash over his face, even if he didn’t say it. “You’re welcome, Hawke.”

He just hummed a laugh, relaxing back against his crate.

_He’s not so bad_ , she thought. _All things considered._


	23. Strange Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Arrow" by LEVV](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CEnxa2DxmNQ&index=23&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&t=0s)

Roslyn fell asleep an hour after she’d kicked Hawke out. When she awoke in the Fade, she slid of her table stone, sparing the surface with its sharply etched runes only a passing glance, and peered through the warped halls of Caer Bronach. It looked largely the same as it had in the waking world, if a bit cleaner. The air hummed with energy and magic, and she lazily drew a line of dancing sparks along the walls as she made her way down to the courtyard.

The wolf was not waiting for her, but instead had wandered far off in the distance, that tether of connection between them present, as it always was. Time moved differently in the Fade, and while to her it might have been only a moment since falling asleep, the wolf might have left while it waited for her to come to consciousness again.

It tugged gently at their tether and sent her a rush of sensation—wet and cold, a giddy sense of rebelliousness.

Roslyn laughed when she realized where it was. “Have fun jumping around in the lake, you ridiculous beast,” she murmured, grinning when it shoved at their tether in annoyance.

For all that it was some kind of ancient spiritual entity attached to an elven orb of unknown magic, it couldn’t help acting like a puppy sometimes.

She drifted out of the keep, wisps and flashes of young spirits trailing in her wake. Older, more compelling spirits still kept their distance, even when she wasn’t with the wolf. She didn’t know if they knew she was an outsider and avoided her for their own protection, or if they were somehow offended by her presence.

_The desire demon hadn’t seemed offended_ , she thought with a frown, picking random flowers from the bushes she walked past, gathering them into a little bouquet. _He’d seemed practically delighted._

She hadn’t let herself think too much about the encounter in the past months, still unsure what to make of it. Even after everything she’d been through, she still found it hard to come to terms with the fact that she had spoken to a demon of her own free will. Things were not as simple as her Circle had made them out to be, she knew that now, but his influence told her exactly how powerful he was. Any sane person would have run the other way immediately. 

She didn’t know why she’d stayed. Her curiosity over the wolf wasn’t enough to justify such recklessness. 

It had scared her enough to ask Leliana to look into the Marquis of Serault. Her spymaster had been confused, but, true to form, had agreed to send an agent west to the edge of the Tirashan Forest to investigate the marquis’s health and activity of late. If Roslyn could know what she was dealing with, maybe it would settle her fears.

Because whatever his aims might be, she couldn’t deny the truth of his words. Something had awoken inside her, something that had to do with the winged woman, who had come to her more than once over the past year. Yes, the wolf was more pressing, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that, whoever the entity was who had saved her on the mountain, she was trying to get her to remember something important.

Even now, as she walked up the incline to the hills outside Crestwood, letting her bare feet wander aimlessly, she wouldn’t let herself say the name sitting at edge of her thoughts, resting on the tip of her tongue. The name that was connected to whatever had resurfaced at the back of her mind when she’d stared at the bust in Haven’s chantry. She still didn’t know how she’d known of the door’s existence, or of the tunnels that led to the mountain pass. She hadn’t been to Haven before. She’d had no way of helping the Inquisition escape, until it had been revealed to her.

How many mad and impossible things had happened to Roslyn since gaining the mark? She’d been thrown through time, fought an archdemon, learned that the myth of the Black City was real, and not only that, but one of the magisters who had plunged the world into darkness over a thousand years ago counted her as a rival.

Was it really so mad to believe that first, mad truth? That Andraste had chosen _her_ to be present at the Conclave? Even if the anchor was clearly not hers, what were the odds that Roslyn could have arrived at the right time to interfere with Coryphea’s ritual? That she could have survived the explosion at all?

She exhaled to shake the tightness from her chest, bounding up an incline to retread the same path she’d walked a few days ago, passing through the clearing where the red templar camp had been in the waking world. She smiled as she realized why her subconscious had brought her here—the cave where the Veil had been thin enough to slip past her skin like water.

Her pace slowed as she entered. The sounds of the Fade beyond dimmed, and a gentle stillness settled over her like a shroud. The Veil slid around her like liquid silk. _Odd_. She hadn’t expected to feel the Veil while in the Fade, but she supposed it went both ways.

The cave opened up into a wide grotto. A small pool sat a few feet in front of her, a quiet waterfall pouring into it with less sound than her own hitched breath. A hazy blue film sat over the entirety of the cave, swirls of energy appearing in the air every now and again like strokes of ink. A sweet, floral scent drifted toward her on the faint wind. She breathed deep, tasting mist and lilac, smiling as her breath displaced the air like a swirl of cloud.

Looking up, she traced the outline of two massive sculptures set into the stone. They looked like elk, or deer, but larger and more graceful, with magnificent racks of twining antlers. The stone itself was different as well, paler than the rough granite that made up the surrounding hills. It was beautiful—like one moment hewn out of time and frozen in a half-dream.

She stood for a while, idly fiddling with the flowers she’d picked. There were no threads of memory in this place, none that she could sense. It was silent, calm, but not oppressive. It was just—peaceful.

Without meaning to, she let one of the flowers slip from her grasp. She reached for it, a bright yellow daffodil—when it caught midair, held on an invisible string.

It jerked up, an echo tugged on her aura, and then it fell again to the ground.

Roslyn stared. Her mouth popped open in shock. 

She’d witnessed the Fade change in accordance with her mood before, but only when she was most afraid, her thoughts wild and unfocused. It had never been a choice before.

But if she was a dreamer, her control over the Fade must stretch beyond watching other people’s memories and dreams. The myths surrounding _somniari_ were varied and most certainly exaggerated, but all of them were rooted in the same truth—that dreamers could intentionally shape the Fade to their will.

She stood still for a long time, staring down at the daffodil. Part of her was afraid. Seeing flashes of dream or memory was one thing. This…was another kind of magic, one she wasn't sure she wanted to try.

Slowly she swallowed her fear, heart thudding in her chest, and sent her consciousness outward. She imagined reaching for the flower, picking it up in her fingers and holding it out in front of her.

Threads of light spun down from her outstretched fingers to curl over the stem. She could feel it now, the slight shifting of energy around her, the odd pull at her mind. The flower floated up to hover in front of her face. She reached out to grab it, and the white threads of light vanished.

A sharp, disbelieving laugh broke through her lips. She grinned. “Andraste’s mercy,” she whispered, shock and awe swirling through her mind in equal measure.

At another thought, one that made her smile go slack, she reached out with her consciousness once more. The white threads spun around the flower. Yellow bled from its petals, lengthening and growing larger, thicker. The stem hardened and thorns pricked at her fingers. The color changed, from yellow to white, pooling at the center and darkening into a deep stripe of blood orange down each petal.

She stared at a perfect recreation of Andraste’s Grace. She traced the outline of the large, pale petals, pressed them between her thumb and fore-finger. Real. As real as any she’d held in the waking world. 

Her consciousness expanded before she could stop herself. She dropped the rest of the flowers and they flew out across the ground, taking hold in the dark green grass. Pinpricks of light danced against her mind as, one by one, flowers bloomed from the ground to circle her in a perfect ring of Andraste’s Grace. They were larger than the ones she’d knelt before in Ostwick, smelling less sweet but somehow more potent—a rusty, heavy musk that filled her nostrils and made her think of twisted vines and wind whistling over sodden moors.

She released her consciousness with an exhale, a little winded, as if she’d just jogged up a steep incline. The flowers didn’t vanish, but sat as solid as if they’d been there all along.

A hesitant, raw delight unfurled inside her, like she was a child again, kneeling before something larger than she could comprehend, and more familiar than her own name. A sparkling candle-flame in the dark. A hollow longing in her chest.

She was so focused on the ring of flowers that she didn’t feel the slight shift in energy at the mouth of the cave until it brushed up against her.

An aura, familiar, and yet entirely unexpected—pine smoke and peppermint, a soft whisper down her spine, a brush of evergreen at the corner of her vision.

She jerked around to see Solas standing just inside the shadow of the cave. A ripple of disturbance spread out through the air. More flowers sprang up in an incoherent pattern around the center circle. She pulled her aura in tight and fought to calm her shock, and the Fade settled once more.

They were both silent, the only sound in the grotto the soft fall of water into the pool behind her.

“Hello,” she said finally, and thanked the blessed Maker her voice didn’t break.

She could feel his gaze, though he was still mostly in shadow.

“Hello,” he said after a moment's hesitation. His voice was measured, calm. “I am sorry to have disturbed you.”

She took a deep breath, tension curling up around her spine. The last time they’d been together in the Fade…

“You didn’t. I was—” She frowned, suddenly self-conscious about the fact that he’d just caught her…playing with flowers. “I don’t know what I was doing.”

She thought she saw his mouth twitch in amusement. “It appears you were dissatisfied with the flora.”

“Right,” she said, smiling in relief. He seemed to be acting normal. As normal as ever.

It was hard to read him from so far away, twenty feet from her and standing half in darkness.

“Am I correct in assuming that—,” he paused to consider his words, “that was the first time you manipulated the Fade?”

“Well, no,” she said. “But it’s certainly the first time I meant to.”

He let out a small, soft chuckle. “I see.”

“You don’t have to hover in the shadows, you know,” she murmured.

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“As I’m currently just gardening, I don’t really see how there’s anything for you to intrude upon.”

She wondered if he would refuse. She wouldn’t blame him. It was one thing to be on shaky ground in the waking world. The Fade was another matter entirely. It was harder to hide here, and easier to forget things that should not be forgotten.

There was a long, heavy silence, but then he stepped forward. “Very gracious of you, Inquisitor,” he murmured, padding on silent feet to circle around the sparse field of flowers she’d grown in her surprise.

She tried not to stare at him, knowing it would not ease the conflict beating in her chest, but she couldn’t help it. Like everything else in the Fade since she’d bound the wolf, she could see more of him, her new awareness allowing her to see a clearer reflection.

And what she saw made her aura spark and yearn.

The air moved around him, not through any force or intention that she could see, but as if it were dancing, teasing. Tendrils of smoke curled around his feet, deep green and indigo, twisting in artful patterns that seemed to whisper at something secret, something hidden.

His skin shone, not with a vibrant glow, but a steady, pearlescent sheen, sometimes smoothing his features and making him look young and carefree, other times sharpening his mouth, the angle of his cheek, the severity of his brow, pooling in the scar above his right eye. He walked with his hands held behind his back, but he leaned forward slightly, eyes taking her in with obvious excitement, but hesitant curiosity. They were a deeper, brighter blue here than in the waking world. Almost the same color of the pool behind him.

_If he wasn’t so Maker-damned beautiful, this would be much easier._

She was silent as she let him approach, wondering what she looked like to him—if there was any truth in what he’d said to her the other day.

“I’ve seen this flower before,” he murmured, bending to pluck one from the ground, “though not in the wild.”

She exhaled softly when it held, convinced for one second that it might dissipate the moment he touched it. But it was firm in his hand as he looked up, eyes clarifying as he met her gaze.

“Your coat.”

Her chest warmed. Damn it, damn it, damn it. “They used to grow in the chantry at the Emerald Cove. I know they’re native to Ferelden, but Maker knows where they actually grow in the wild. Leliana—” She paused, remembering the surprise of seeing her coat, the flowers stitched in silver and white thread along the collar and cuffs. “They’re called Andraste’s Grace. I assume Leliana thought it would be fitting.”

A slight smile curled at one side of his mouth. “Fitting,” he repeated.

Her eyes dropped to his lips as she remembered the fevered press of them against hers all those months ago. She’d done her best not to, focusing more on the pain of what came after, the distance she should be keeping from him for her own sanity. But here in the silence of the grotto, knowing that if she just reached out, she would feel his aura pulsing around him…

“I suppose we had the same thought about this place, then,” she said, looking up purposefully to meet his gaze.

“It appears so.” He pulled the hand still holding the flower behind his back. “You sensed a strangeness in the Veil outside the cave, I recall.”

She nodded. “It’s oddly thin. I didn’t realize it would go both ways—that I would feel it even here. I don’t think I have while dreaming before.”

He considered her, eyes bright in the haze of the grotto. “You wouldn’t, usually. This place is different.”

At her tilted head, he turned to stare up at the statues, expression growing wistful.

“There are places in the Fade which hold no memory, no impression of any being, be they spirit, elf, or human. They are pockets of silence in a vast symphony, places of rest, if you will.” He turned his head, watching her out of the corner of his eye. “To find one is very rare.”

“Then—why would it be thin?” She frowned, fighting the urge to step toward him. The circle of flowers around her held like a demarcation. If she remained in her circle, she would not tempt fate by straying too near. The irony was not lost on her as she thought about her table stone and the ring of light she’d used for nearly a decade to repel demons. Though in this comparison she felt more like the lusting demon than the frightened mage. “If there are no spirits and no memory, shouldn’t the Veil be stronger, not weaker?”

His head inclined in approval. “You would think. I theorize that such areas are necessary to maintain balance throughout the rest.” He paused, and turned away again. “Think of it like a sheet of silk rather than a pane of glass. If one tried to drape the latter over an object, it would shatter. The glass does not give or mold itself without force or heat, and while it would remain consistently strong throughout, it would not serve its purpose. A sheet of silk stretched across an object would, for the most part, take that object’s shape, some areas pulled taut while others were relaxed. Thus, some parts of the Veil are stronger while others are weaker, for no reason other than its nature.”

“Wouldn’t spirits be drawn to this place, then? If it was weaker by nature, it would be easier to cross over.”

“Perhaps this place, for whatever reason, is immune to tears.” He turned slowly, sauntering toward her through the flowers, careful not to step on any. “I have seen such places before, and they seem to hold no memory or dream, no impression at all. No matter how long I remained or what impressions I searched for.”

She fought to keep her expression open, unaffected, as he stopped only a few paces away. This close, she could feel his aura, even though she knew he was holding it back. She too had hers in a tight grip, and yet their edges caught and drifted past each other, brushing slowly, hesitantly, with minds of their own.

His face betrayed nothing, and she couldn’t tell if he felt the same reaching pull, though he must.

“If nothing takes hold here,” she asked, “then how did I make these flowers?”

A soft, cautious smile tugged at his lips, and he said, “I believe they will fade in time. Though how long it will take, I cannot say.”

She hummed in response, unsure of how to respond.

Solas’s eyes roved almost unconsciously over her face, intent and hyper-focused, in a way that only his were, as if she were some fleeting vision he needed to memorize before she vanished. It was all she could do not to step forward and repeat the same mistake she’d made all those months ago in a snow-covered village, now buried and lost.

Because no matter what he’d said in the Deep Roads, or their cautious flirting, or the longing that shone out from behind his purposefully cool eyes like sunlight from behind a bank of grey cloud—he didn’t want this. He’d made that clear enough on the mountain after Haven had been destroyed. It didn’t matter what he felt. He couldn’t offer her more than friendship.

And even if a part of her screamed that it wasn’t enough, it had to be. She wouldn’t push him into something he didn’t want.

“I wonder,” he murmured, and she pulled herself out of the mire of her own conflicted mind, “is this the extent of your ability to influence the Fade?”

Her eyes narrowed at the smirk on his lips. “Is that a challenge?”

He chuckled, the air around him dancing with faint eddies of blue and green shadow, moths to his hidden flame. “If you’d like. I merely refuse to believe that a mind such as yours would be limited to flowers, however lovely they might be.”

Her brow lifted in mock outrage. She tilted her head, already reaching for something she could replicate. It might not work, and she was still not entirely sure how she had made the flowers, but the self-satisfied look on his face was reason enough to try.

The image slid into place, and she smiled, matching his smirk with her own. “Remember that this is my first try,” she warned, heart beating fast at the look of anticipation in his eyes, “and that I am a particularly prideful creature who does not enjoy being teased.”

“I do not think I could forget if I tried.”

She gave him one last glare before she closed her eyes. It would be strange enough to do this at all—she didn’t need his stupidly lovely eyes as a distraction.

The image unfurled at the front of her mind, and the Fade answered. The air shifted and pulled, slowly, tentatively, as she threaded herself through the grotto. Stone rose into a tower above her, while a tree sprouted at her back, groaning and creaking as it grew and draped full, swaying branches over her head. The sweet smell of wildflowers and honey filled her nostrils. Warmth washed across her chest, a shaft of late afternoon sun cutting through the air from a window to her left.

The Fade shuttered still, the faint noise of the waterfall still present under the new rustling of tall grass and the buzzing of insects. This time, she felt the drag on her energy—similar to casting in the waking world, but oddly removed. While things might be easier in the Fade, it would be harder to judge her own limits. 

“Did it work?” she asked, voice heavy as she caught her breath.

Solas took a long time to respond, the tension growing as she stood before him, waiting.

“Open your eyes,” he murmured. His voice raised gooseflesh on her arms and sent a shudder of heat down her spine. He hadn’t moved any closer, but his voice wrapped around her mind, ghosting along her skin like a gentle wind.

She found him staring at her with an open expression of awe, not smiling, but focused. It took more effort than she’d care to admit to pull her gaze and look around at her changes.

Calenhad’s Foothold was fully intact, wooden beams pristine and shining in the warm sunlight overhead. The tree looked different, more spindly, and taller than it had been when she’d seen it last. The ground was choked with wildflowers of every color, though the flashes of white among yellow, orange, and purple were still present, Andraste’s Grace mixed in with the Hinterlands’flora. 

It didn’t look exactly the same. Where the real tower had only been thirty or so feet across, with a raised stone dais in the center, the vision around her stretched nearly twice that distance. The large pool was still present, though the waterfall seemed to pour through a hole in the tower wall rather than a rocky outcropping. The paintings on the cavern walls now stood in the tower, the mural of the bear and the antlered woman replaced with warriors and unknown vistas. Over the falls, etched into the stone in a partially raised mosaic, were the twin deer, still huge, but incorporated into the tower itself. It was as if her mind had fit the tower around the grotto, layering the building into the existing landscape.

When she turned back to Solas, she arched one brow imperiously. “You didn’t think I could, did you?”

“On the contrary,” he said, awe replaced with a pointed, intent satisfaction. “I had every confidence in your abilities. I am merely surprised by your choice of location.”

“It’s—”

“I know what it is,” he murmured. “I hadn’t realized you were so fond of this place.”

“It’s complicated,” she said, thinking of him sitting against the tree in the last light of day. She swallowed the tightness in her throat, fiddled with the flowers still clutched in her hands. The sweet tang of apple broke across her tongue, and she forced herself not to lick her lips. “But I am. Very fond, in fact.”

His smiled faded as he held her gaze. A small shudder passed over his features, accompanied by an echo in the air around him. He let out a small, shaky breath. Conflict blossomed in his eyes, and the light dimmed.

_Maker, there it is,_ she thought, recognizing his fear. _He doesn’t want this._

She looked down, and he relaxed. The flowers in her hand fell onto the ground, and she willed them to connect with the grass. They floated slowly, stems lengthening to take their place at her feet.

“So,” she started, giving him time to collect himself, “I showed you mine…”

His laughter was sharp, surprised. “How rude of me.” He withdrew the hand that still held one of her flowers, offering it up to her with a casual gesture.

She met his gaze once, before taking it, careful not to let their fingers brush. “Is this the part where you pull something out of your—”

The flower pulsed and shifted in a swirl of golden light. She gasped, nearly dropping the thing as it grew larger. It leapt from her loose grip, wings sprouting from a small, sleek body. A trill of birdsong whipped around her head as it trailed yellow sparks in its wake. She watched it with a laugh as the echo of her Duck brushed past her cheek and pulled gently at her curls.

It finally alighted back on Solas’ upheld palm, sitting calmly and still, in a way the real spirit never would. It leapt up again, and swirled in the air.

Solas twisted both hands in the air, bringing his fists together. Duck’s form smoothed and lengthened into gleaming steel. A sword emerged from the sparking fragments of energy as if it were being pulled from a forge. It finally rested on his open palms, sharp and lethal in the shifting sunlight. 

Roslyn tried not to look too impressed, but it was difficult. He’d transformed the flower in the space of a few moments, and with no apparent effort, while she still felt like she'd jogged a few times around the cave. The control and artistry he’d employed to shift one form to the next was staggering.

“All right,” she allowed, taking the sword from his hands and testing its weight. She frowned when she found it was perfectly balanced. “That was rather good.”

“Such high praise,” he said with a half-smile.

The hilt of the sword was beautiful, with curling, graceful letters carved into metal that looked as if it had grown around the blade itself. It shimmered with a faint sheen of blue, and the edge nearly cut her as she ran a finger along its length. “It’s a nice sword. Bit thin for my taste, but nice. Let me guess, it’s a proper elven blade, like the ancients used to wield?”

“As close as I can replicate.”

She snorted. “You are not very good at false humility.”

He said nothing, but the self-satisfaction in his eyes was enough to tell her that it was perfect.

“Is it more difficult to change what I’ve already made?” she asked.

“It would be if you wanted it to remain the same.”

“You mean I could fight you, if I wanted?”

He nodded. “In the height of Elvhenan, it was not uncommon for mages to enter into tests of will. I believe the same is true for your Tevinter _somniari_ , as Dorian would no doubt be the first to tell you.”

To her, the thought was troubling, but he didn’t seem concerned. He was just waiting, anticipation gleaming in his eyes.

“I’m impressed,” she said with a smile, bringing her hands around her back to mirror him, cocking her head. “So far.”

His eyes narrowed, taking in her stance with an arched brow. “I see.” He tilted his head in consideration, and when he met her gaze again, her chest swelled with heat. The look in his eyes now was almost piercing as he took another step toward her.

She was so focused on his face, grip tightening on the sword held behind her back, anything to keep her emotions in check—that she was caught entirely off guard when the ground fell out from under her.

A startled cry burst from her lips as the grotto swirled in a confusion of light and color. She reached out instinctively, bracing herself against Solas’ chest with her free hand as the world shifted and tilted. She thought she heard him laugh, or gasp—she couldn’t tell, as her heart leapt into her throat and shock pounded in her ears.

After only a moment of chaos, her surroundings solidified. She blinked, breath ragged, trying to find her balance.

“My apologies,” Solas murmured, his voice so close she nearly jumped. “I should have given you a warning.”

She turned to find him only a few inches away. Her mind went blank for a moment as her eyes met his and his aura sparked. Peppermint filled her mouth and she licked her bottom lip before she could stop herself.

Her hand jerked away as if burned and she stepped back, forcing herself to breathe normally.“What would be the fun in that?” she asked sharply, though her voice lacked enough edge to be truly biting.

Also, she couldn’t stop staring at his Maker-damned lips.

She dragged her gaze away before she could see whatever flickered in his expression, and her tension eased.

She now stood at the end of a long colonnade. Pillars of crystalline white marble ran behind her up to a large building, dark spires of twisted metal shaped like circular trees piercing the night sky on its ramparts. The colonnade path rested in the center of a large lake, the water still and serene. The night was clear, a high, full moon illuminating a wide valley blanketed in sparse evergreens and fields of swaying grass. The scent of pine and pollen drifted on a gentle breeze past her face, rushing down from the rolling mountains that stretched for miles in all directions. All she could hear was the faint whisper of wind and the distant lap of water against an empty shore.

“Where are we?” she finally asked in little more than a whisper, not wanting to break the peace that hung over this place.

He didn’t answer for a beat, and she turned to find him staring past her at the fields. A wistful longing hung in his eyes, laid bare and raw, and she grew still at the sight.

“A place I lived for a time, when I was younger.” His gaze dropped, flashed to her. There was hesitation there as well, and fear, though it seemed less sharp in the soft light of the reflected moon. “It was a refuge. A place of quiet reflection.”

Her smile grew before she could help it, heat filtering through her chest at the thought…the thought that he would show her a piece of himself. She knew without asking that he had never told anyone about this place before, had never had the chance to show someone.

It was small, but it was something. Enough to start.

“It’s beautiful.”

A wistful smile tugged at his lips.

All at once, she realized how isolating it would be to live in a world where he couldn’t share all this with anyone else. Without Solas, she’d still be sitting on her table stone, shielding herself from the beauty beyond her barrier of light. No wonder he’d been so upset by her rejection of the Fade at first. 

She took a deep breath, knowing she had to say something, or address the growing urgency in her heart. She wanted to ask him more about this place, about his youth, about everything—but the tension at the corner of his mouth told her he would just pull away again.

“I have a hard time believing you were ever young,” she murmured, trying to fold a bit of humor into her voice

His brows darted up in surprise and he laughed. “I should be offended.”

“If you’d like.” Still holding his gaze, she twisted the sword in her grip and focused. The Fade pulled at her again, more obvious now that she knew what to look for. The long, curving blade reshaped itself into a small pin-prick of light. It hovered in the air between them, winking at the edges of her vision like stardust as she held his gaze. And then it vanished with a small flash of white smoke.

He stared at the space where it had been, and then raised his gaze slowly. “You are a quick study.”

She shrugged, fully conscious of her body and the space between them. “Sometimes.”

His chest expanded, and he opened his mouth to speak—when a low growl broke the silence.

Roslyn’s head snapped to the side, and saw a wolf, _her_ wolf, standing in shadow at the end of the colonnade.


	24. Meet Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Shiver" by Adna](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rQ0triYaCDk&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&t=0s&index=24)

Solas moved so fast Roslyn barely had time to react.

The Fade shifted with another confusion of light and sound, and they stood once more in the unchanged grotto. He held his arm out, as if to shield her from the wolf where it crouched in the mouth of the cave, ears flat and teeth bared. A wave of malevolence rolled toward them, and Roslyn winced.

“No, no,” she said quickly, side-stepping Solas when he tried to move in front of her. She met his gaze, saw confusion break through his hard, flat expression—one he only wore when he was preparing to fight.

She didn’t give herself time to think about the fact that Solas was about to meet the wolf he didn’t think existed, or the fact that the wolf seemed to consider him a large enough threat to let some of that black shadow coalesce around its speckled white fur, its eyes burning green and its maw bared to reveal sharp, lethal teeth.

“Roslyn—” Solas started, eyes wide with disbelief as she jerked away.

“It’s not dangerous,” she insisted, jogging toward the wolf. She held out her hands as its eyes flashed to her. “Hey, easy, _easy_ ,” she murmured, reaching forward and smoothing the fur back on its snout. It rumbled at her touch, but otherwise made no move to shake her off. _What’s with the scary shadows?_ she thought through their connection, trying to convey trust and acceptance, or at least calm. _He’s a friend._

It resisted at first, huffing an incredulous breath against her face. It shook out its head and snapped its teeth a few inches from her hand, not in anger, but frustration.

“Maker’s balls, that’s unnecessary,” she muttered. She wrapped both hands around its snout and forced it to look at her rather than glare over her shoulder. Even crouched, it was a few inches taller than she was. Staring pointedly into its six green eyes, she repeated, “He’s a _friend_ , jackass. Stand down.”

It huffed again, fur rippling as it let out a deep rumble. It clearly didn’t agree. Its emotions and thoughts were a jumble of confusion—anger and fury, tempered with a strange familiarity, oscillating between intense curiosity and fear. She couldn’t see the meaning behind any of it, and it didn’t seem to understand itself. But it had never reacted well to other spirits they’d crossed paths with, even taking a few weeks to warm up to Duck. _Territorial ass._

“It’s okay,” she murmured, concerned as it continued to struggle for coherence, “it’s okay. He’s not going to hurt you.”

The wolf breathed slowly as she released its snout and ran her fingers through its fur, scratching behind its ears. Slowly, the confusion faded, to be replaced with an unsteady wariness. She sent it another wave of reassurance, and it batted her cheek with its wet nose. “All right,” she said, shoving it away gently, “don’t push your luck.”

Self-satisfaction flashed through their connection as it sat, brushing its paw against her shoulder as she turned to look back at Solas.

She had prepared herself for his immediate disapproval, his horror and disgust.

But what she found instead was hard disbelief. He stared at the wolf with wide eyes, his mouth pressed into a thin line. His hands hovered at his sides, as if he had frozen in the act of stepping forward.

“Sorry,” she finally said, “it’s not usually—” She broke off as his eyes moved to her, tight and hard.

“What is this?” he snapped, voice cracking like a whip.

It took her a moment to respond, so thoroughly taken aback by his anger that she struggled to find words. “This is my wolf,” she said slowly, keeping her voice cool as the wolf sensed her apprehension. It pawed at the ground, lowering its head in a warning.

“Your _wolf_?” Solas repeated, a flash of incredulity breaking his mask. “ _Your_ —”

“The wolf I told you about in Redcliffe,” she said sharply, not understanding the anger in his eyes and not particularly willing to accept it. “The one you told me was just a manifestation of my own fear and confusion.”

“ _That_ is a spirit.” He said it so firmly, without any room for debate, as if she were an idiot for thinking anything else. His expression tightened. “An incredibly powerful spirit.”

“I know what it is,” she snapped, not even bothering to curb the wolf as it snarled in response. This, she’d been ready for. His outrage that she had bound a spirit that had somehow affixed itself to Coryphea’s orb.

But there was something wrong with the accusation in his eyes, something shocked and frightened. She couldn’t understand it.

His gaze seared through her, sharp and distrustful. “ _This_ is the entity you bound in Redcliffe?”

She waited a beat, trying to piece together the wariness in his eyes, so different from the caution she’d seen before, the hesitation. This wasn’t some fear of indulging in feelings that he didn’t want. This was something baser. Something more like the eerie stillness that had come over him the moment he recognized Isahn.

She tightened her grip in the wolf’s scruff, and it moved a bit closer.

Solas watched the interaction with an unreadable expression.

“It is.” Her voice caught as she finally said it out loud, the horrible truth beating like a drum in the pit of her stomach. “Dorian was right. Somehow, a spirit connected itself to the anchor, or the orb. Or,” she frowned, “it _is_ the anchor. I don’t know. I don’t know how it happened, or what… It’s a spirit, and it’s bound to the anchor. To me.”

They stood in silence, the wolf calmed enough that it was a grounding presence at her side. It cocked its head, sensing the thread of Roslyn’s distress as it ran its consciousness along hers. Whether it understood the tangle of guilt, frustration, and longing that made up her feelings for the elf standing in front of them, she couldn’t say. But she did feel its curiosity. Its distrust and wariness held, along with not a small amount of ownership, to her frustration.

Before she could stop it, the wolf sent a sharp, probing thread across the space. Roslyn felt it connect with Solas, felt his aura break over her skin just as readily as if she’d reached out herself. The fresh, sharp feel of it surrounded her for one second—

And then Solas shattered the connection and forced it back. A riot of energy spread out around him as he slammed an iron hold down around his aura.

She winced, the sensation so similar to him shoving her aside after they’d kissed that she had a hard time controlling the cloud of emotions that rippled around her. It hurt, like a physical slap inside her chest. Rebounding and pulsing in an echo through her mind.

“Fuck,” she muttered as the pain dimmed, fingers digging into the wolf’s fur as it bristled and sent her a thread of confusion. _Don’t do that again,_ she tried to convey, trying not to sound too annoyed or sharp. It clearly didn’t understand. _Fucking Void, that hurts._

“Sorry,” she said, more loudly so that Solas could hear her, trying to catch her breath. “It’s—sometimes it’s hard for it to understand what’s happening. It’s worse when I’m—” She broke off, hating the twist of self-loathing in her voice. Five minutes ago she’d been so damn pleased to be sharing his memory. _I’m such a fool._ “I know this makes no sense, but I’ve got it under control,” she continued when Solas said nothing.

Even after everything he’d said about her being gifted, having a singular mind, he still didn’t trust that she was telling the truth. He still treated her like a damn child playing with forces she didn’t understand.

It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did.

“Believe me or not. I don’t care.” She swallowed the lump in her throat when she realized that he would not help her figure out how this had happened. That she would have to do it alone.

She hadn’t consciously considered the idea that he would agree, or that she would ask anyone else. Dorian, maybe. But Solas knew the mark better than anyone besides her. If anyone could help her, it would have been him.

She forced herself to look up and meet his gaze. The mask that he’d pulled over himself now was brittle and sharp, eyes still wide with disbelief. He was breathing hard, as if the wolf’s probe had shaken him deeply.

Whatever he was thinking, whatever he felt about the realization that he’d been so thoroughly wrong— _and right_ , she allowed—was hidden to her.

It was a relief when the gentle tug at the base of her spine came, the sign that her body was waking. “Thank you for tonight,” she managed, trying to keep her voice steady as he remained silent and frozen.

He made no move to respond. He simply watched her, and the wolf, as she tipped back and awoke.

Roslyn lay perfectly still, taking deep breaths as her anxiety rose and her skin crawled with shame. She lurched upright, cot creaking precariously as she untangled the blankets from her feet and leaned forward to grasp her knees. Her heart pounded and her mind sparked with rage and frustration, disappointment and crushing, horrible finality. It wasn’t as if she had expected him to react positively, when he eventually found out. She’d been under no delusions that they wouldn’t have crossed paths in the Fade at some point in the future, and that the meeting would be awkward and tense.

But she had hoped, that he would _try_ to understand. She knew he disapproved. Maker damn her, she hated _herself_ for binding the wolf. But she’d had no choice.

_It doesn’t matter,_ she told herself, letting the wolf brush against her in comfort and reassurance. Out of the Fade, it was more docile, though it was still confused, waiting for her to explain what actually happened. But she couldn’t. She barely understood herself.

Roslyn took a deep breath, shoving aside the disappointment and pain at seeing that accusation so clear in Solas’s eyes. She prepared for the day quickly, shoving on her armor and buckling her sword as if it had done her a personal injury, tucking the white opal amulet into her shirt so hard she nearly broke the metal chain. She fought the urge to throw her tankard across the room, if only to release some of the tension pounding under her skin.

She would not let this happen again. She was the fucking Inquisitor, and she would not break under the disappointment of a man who didn’t care about her enough to listen. Who was too afraid of his feelings to—

The door to her room slammed against the wall as she pushed it open, a bit harder than she’d intended. A few scouts at the end of the hallway jumped, quickly composing themselves and watching in increasing fear as she marched toward them. “Find Charter and tell her I’m making for the western hills,” she said, not bothering to specify which person she threw her words at.

One of the agents, a spindly man with milky blue eyes, nodded quickly and skipped out of her way.

_Stupid_. Taking out her frustrations on her own people was unfair. She took a few deep breaths as she jogged down to the courtyard, happy to see Hawke and Iron Bull chatting pleasantly around the embers of last night’s bonfire.

They both saw her at the same time, though Iron Bull was the only one to take in her angry stance, the fire that flashed in her eyes.

“Well, good morning, fair lady,” Hawke called with a flourish of his hand, giving her an ostentatious wink. “And how—”

“Fancy a bit of bandit hunting?” she snapped, glaring at Hawke.

He blanched and coughed. On another day, she might have been pleased to see him stumble for words. “I—sure, Inquisitor. Yes.”

Iron Bull grinned, though it didn’t soften the curiosity in his eye. “You’re enthusiastic today, boss.”

“I just don’t like wasting time, Bull. Anyone else up yet?”

His brow lifted, but he seemed to realize she wasn’t in a mood to talk. “I think Krem and Skinner, but my people tend to sleep in when we’re not on a job. And you’ll have to drag Sera from her bed kicking and screaming if you want her to fight on an empty stomach.”

She nodded, casting her eyes over the courtyard. Now that she looked, she realized how early it truly was—the sky was still a wash of pink-tinged blue, the air sharp with a lingering nighttime chill.

“Beth—my sister,” Hawke cleared his throat, “will be sleeping as well. And we have not yet seen your hobo elf.”

Her jaw clenched and she looked away before they could see the anger flash in her eyes. He wasn’t _her_ anything. “A small team is fine. I don’t want to draw too much attention. Krem and Skinner—”

She faltered as saw Solas making his way quickly down the staircase.

_Fuck_.

“Ten minutes,” she snapped, turning abruptly before he could see her. “Grab anyone you can. Meet me outside.”

She tightened her gloves and adjusted her vest as she walked down the main ramp of Caer Bronach.

The smell of lavender and dewy grass only made her think of the previous night. Of how absolutely ridiculous she’d been. She’d spun flowers from the raw Fade and batted her lashes at him like some heart-sick child, swooned when he’d deigned to show her one brief slice of his life, all the while refusing to even _listen_ to her—

“Inquisitor, a word,” Solas said urgently, his voice coming up behind her quickly, as if he were walking fast to catch up.

“I’m not sure I have time right now, Solas.” She forced herself to keep her eyes forward. He could lecture her some other time. Or never. Preferably the latter.

His hand closed around her arm and pulled her to a stop, the touch so sudden that she froze as he stepped in front of her. She stared up into his face, and her mind went blank as she saw not anger or disapproval, but guilt.

“Roslyn, please,” he murmured, his voice heavy with emotion. “Allow me the chance to explain myself.”

Distantly, she knew the image of them standing close together, staring at each other like nothing else existed in the world, in plain sight of everyone in the courtyard, would spin gossip for weeks—but she didn’t care. She could have pitched forward into the blue abyss of his eyes and she wouldn’t have been any the wiser.

She looked down to his hand, still holding her arm, and she tried to find her voice. “All right,” she said at last.

His expression transformed into one of tight relief, and he exhaled sharply, as if he had been holding his breath. “Thank you,” he murmured. He seemed to realize how close they were standing, less than a foot apart, and released her arm. He looked over her shoulder, and his brow furrowed. “Perhaps somewhere more discreet.”

She followed him, feeling as if she’d stepped into a strange dream. The wolf prodded at her mind, but she didn’t answer. She was still angry, and she had no idea what he wanted to say now that he couldn’t have said in the Fade. But the shock of seeing him bare his emotions so plainly—of him touching her so freely…

His shoulders were tense, and he shot her a glance once as he walked down the ramp to a hill tucked against the side of the keep, next to a gallows they’d yet to dismantle. She might have found it amusing, the nervousness in his eyes, but her mind was still sluggish and stuttering.

He stopped, and turned back to her, having regained some of his composure. Only then did she realize that his clothes were rumpled, his woolen sweater bunched up on his left hip. One of his sleeves had been pushed up hastily, bare forearm flexing, hands clenched as he moved them behind his back. His collar was askew as well, his chest free of the bone pendant he always wore.She felt a strange desire to straighten it.

It reminded her of his discomfort in Wisdom’s clearing. Her mouth twitched.

His eyes honed in on the movement, flashed up again to meet hers.

She waited, disinclined to give him any help.

It took him a moment, but he finally said, “I apologize for the way I reacted to… For my response. I thought—” He broke off, expression pained as he held her gaze. The crease in his brow was so deep, she fought the sudden urge to smooth it with her thumb.

_Not helping,_ she told herself, keeping her expression neutral as she waited for him to continue.

“It doesn’t matter what I thought. I know how it came across, and in my shock, I didn’t have time to explain.”

She arched one brow when he paused to study her reaction. “Then explain.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Your…wolf,” he said, pausing as a distant, strangled confusion entered his eyes, “is not what I expected.”

She frowned. “And you were expecting to find me talking to myself like a madwoman, babbling to a cloud of my own imagination?”

“No,” he said slowly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Though that is an entertaining image.”

“Is it?” she muttered, her voice low and sharp. 

He seemed to realize he was treading on dangerous ground, though amusement still lingered in the creases at the corners of his eyes. “Perhaps not.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Solas. I tried to explain—”

“I know you did,” he murmured, and he took a small step toward her, almost unconsciously. “I know.”

Nerves danced up her spine as she watched him. This lack of control—she didn’t know how to react. He seemed tense, yes, but there was something frenetic about his voice, something excited.

“And I didn’t believe you,” he continued, guilt ringing in every word. “I couldn’t. To think that a spirit had affixed itself to the orb, that it had somehow possessed you without my knowledge… It was impossible.”

She remembered his confidence as he’d told Dorian she wasn’t possessed, that he would know if she was. “How would you be able to tell something like that?”

He hesitated. “There are ways to determine if someone is being influenced by a spirit. Their aura, for one,” he added when she narrowed her eyes. “Spirits carry a distinct feeling to those who know what to look for. You have never exhibited such a quality.” He paused, an intensity entering his eyes. “Your aura has only ever been yours.”

“But how do you know that, Solas?” she pressed. It was one thing to speak with certainty, another to provide no proof and expect her to just believe him. “You’ve only known me when I’ve had the anchor. You can’t know what my aura felt like before it.”

“True.” Something dark flashed in his eyes, before he asked, “What impressions are you given when you feel my aura?”

It took her a moment to respond, knowing exactly how intimate it was to discuss this topic. Auric signatures were intensely private, at least in the Circle, and it was largely seen as…overly familiar to talk openly about how other people’s auras felt. Also, most people could not sense them as anything more than a fleeting hint, but she’d always been more attuned than most people. 

She didn’t know if he felt the same compunctions—probably not, as everything the Circle did was backwards and ignorant in his eyes.

“I—” She hesitated, swallowed the lump in her throat. Behind the steady patience, she thought she saw a sliver of hesitation in his eyes, a piece of the emotion she’d felt in the grotto. “Peppermint,” she finally said, voice hard as she fought past the flutter of heat in her chest, “and pine, but—smoky. Like a campfire. Whispering, but not in a creepy way. More,” she exhaled, looking to the sky to banish the heat rising up her chest, “comforting.”

That, of course, was not the word she would normally use to describe the sensation of his aura as it traveled down her spine and ghosted over her skin, but she would not say out loud that his aura _caressed_ her. Not on her fucking life.

When she met his gaze again, he seemed to be trying very hard to keep his expression neutral. Her embarrassment froze when she saw a faint flush on his cheeks, splotches of pale pink under his golden freckles.

_Oh, Maker damn you_ , she thought, trying not to stare at his blush. _Damn you to fucking Void, you asshole._

“Spirits contain a subtle mutability to their auras,” he said after a moment, voice tight. “It is their nature to change and adapt, as they were born from the Fade and exist most truly within. Even when drawn to the waking world, they retain that potential. Tell me, does anything about my aura convey that to you?”

She arched an eyebrow. “Are you asking me if I think you capable of change?”

He let out a small laugh and looked down. “I deserve that, I think.”

The tightness in her throat eased. He seemed genuinely willing to explain, though she still didn’t understand what this had to do with her wolf. “I haven’t felt that,” she said. “Though I haven’t been looking.”

He nodded. “When you have spent as much time with spirits as I have, you come to understand this potential and recognize it immediately. You will also find that they are less complex than those of an elf. Or human,” he added, almost begrudgingly. “Physically embodied auras are different. More fixed and less open to outside influence.”

“But the wolf is a spirit,” she said. “You said so last night.”

Again, that hesitation shone in his eyes, a tight, incredulous awe. “It is. But I did not know that until I saw it for myself.” He paused, and his voice dropped low. “Because it is _you_ , Roslyn. The wolf is a spirit, yes, but it is indistinguishable from you, only recognizable in the Fade for what it truly is. When it—tried to pull at my aura, I felt only you.”

She stared at him in confusion when he didn’t continue. “What do you mean?”

“The wolf’s aura is _your_ aura,” he murmured. “There is no difference, because it was borne from you.”

“But it’s—” Her mind wrapped around the idea, and a small, insane thought blossomed. “You’re not suggesting that I…”

“Formed the spirit yourself?” He tilted his head, as if the words caused him some discomfort to say. “It is unlikely—”

“It’s _impossible_ ,” she finished, shaking her head as she let the wolf rise. She tested its energy, tried to sense where it began and she ended, but there was nothing but the tether, the connection that bound them. “Spirits are formed through…collective thought or impressions—” She frowned, trying to remember her teachings on the formation of spirits.

The Circle had only ever warned them against demons. Studying the origins of the things that were constantly trying to possess you was not exactly forbidden, but it certainly wasn’t taught to apprentices or younger enchanters. And she’d never been particularly interested in understanding them. Until now.

“One person can’t _make_ a spirit,” she said.

“Normally I would agree with you. The amount of power and will to form a spirit on one’s own should be impossible for any mage alive today. But the circumstances surrounding your interaction with the orb might have made it not only possible, but _probable_.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it, the wolf hovering at the edge of her mind. “How?”

His expression tightened as he saw the fear in her eyes. “The amount of energy released by the orb when Coryphea performed her ritual was immense, something this world has not seen in living memory. The blood sacrifice, combined with the power of the raw Fade, were directed through you. Whatever happened when you gained the anchor caused your mind to focus so intensely that you must have formed the spirit by accident.”

Her stomach shifted. She’d _made_ the wolf? When Cole had told her to make it real, she’d thought he was speaking metaphorically, not…

“Why did it take so long to manifest, then?” she asked in a small voice. “And why was it fighting me if…if it _was_ me?”

“Most spirits take years to gain sentience, if not decades or centuries. A few months is nothing.” His mouth curled into a half-smile, brow cocked as he said, “And while I would never presume to speak to your internal climate, is it so hard to believe you might experience some conflict with a part of yourself you didn’t understand?”

She snorted before she could help herself.“Oh, fuck you,” she breathed, just saying something to fill space while the knowledge took root. 

She took a step back, smoothed her hair out of her face, tried to understand the trajectory of her racing thoughts.

Only to freeze at the memory of her encounter with the desire demon.

“Two months ago I met a demon in the Fade,” she said, meeting Solas’ gaze. “He—he said he _knew_ the wolf.”

His expression tightened. “He…did?”

She nodded. “He said the wolf was old, thousands of years old.”

Solas took his time to answer, a small furrow appearing in his brow. “There are some denizens of the Fade who feed off discord and confusion. You…draw attention. I would not be surprised if this entity were twisting the truth to cause you distress.”

“You think he was talking about the anchor itself, then?”

“Presumably.” He paused. “Do you often encounter such beings?”

“No,” she looked down, once again trying to find the place where she and wolf connected, and once again sensing only the thread, not where it originated, “the wolf scares most of them off. But I’d—met him before.”

Her chest grew tight. The demon had hinted that there was something more going on inside her than she could remember. Maybe he had been talking about the wolf. If she’d managed to create a spirit without realizing, that would certainly draw the attention of a powerful demon. It might even be what the winged woman was talking about. 

“Before you bound the wolf?”

“At Vivienne’s party in Val Royeaux,” she said, frowning up at him. “He was impersonating a marquis. Or he’d killed the marquis and was possessing his body. I’m not sure.”

Solas’s eyes were hard in thought. “Have you considered checking into his origins?”

“No, I just figured it would sort itself out on its own.” Her brow lifted and she refrained from rolling her eyes. “Leliana’s looking into it.”

“Ah,” he said, looking appropriately contrite.

They both stared at each other, silence building between them as she tried to digest the idea that…that she’d made…

“Hey, boss?”

She managed not to jump as she turned around.

Iron Bull stood on the ramp down from the keep, leaning casually onto his axe. Hawke stood behind him, very obviously trying not to look at her and Solas, and failing. Maker, she should have gotten drunk with the man weeks ago, if he was now going to be trying his best not to piss her off.

“Five minutes, Bull,” she called back.

“Whatever you want. I think our new Grey Warden friend is here, by the way. Thought you’d want to know.”

She tried not to frown at the pointed tone in his voice. Damn qunari was far too observant. “Right. Thanks.”

“Morning, Solas,” Iron Bull called before he turned away, a wide, glittering smile on his face.

Solas merely nodded, annoyance in the twist of his mouth.

“Well,” she said, exhaling some of the tension curling inside her throat. “Thank you for explaining. I’m not—exactly sure how to react to the idea that I…” She broke off in a weak laugh. _Maker’s balls, I’m going to implode one of these days._

His eyes softened as she turned back to him. “You performed a remarkable feat. I know you have your—,” he dropped her gaze, expression conflicted, “your fears, but do not discredit yourself. You accomplished something no one in living memory has done. Take pride in that.”

She smiled tightly, and said, “You’d think that would get easier to digest the more times you say it.”

Silence fell between them again, and Roslyn was about to make her excuse to leave, when he murmured, “I am sorry the night was cut short with my—reaction. I did not mean to cause you pain, and I hate that I did.”

“Careful,” she said with a small smile, “or I’m going to start getting used to your apologies.”

His mouth twitched. “Perhaps it is something I should cultivate, then.”

“I’m sure I could come up with a list.” The tension still curled in her chest. She still felt like the world had shifted just slightly to the left, leaving her scrambling—but it was too easy to forget all of that when he was staring at her with that hesitant light in his eyes and the beginnings of a smile on his lips. 

“Are you?” she asked before she could stop herself, voice dropping unconsciously. “Sorry, I mean? You seemed…rather upset.”

“It is…complicated,” he said, echoing her words the previous night. The smile faded from his lips, and his brow furrowed. They were still a few feet apart, but she could almost hear his mind fighting whatever he was about to say. “But I am. Deeply. That is not how I would have liked to leave the night.”

She fought to keep her expression neutral, to ignore the curling warmth building in her chest. 

A crash of steel broke the moment, and she nearly bit her tongue off as her jaw clenched.

“You should return to your raiding party,” he mused, stepping back and folding his hands behind him. He closed himself off, but that light lingered, that meaning hidden behind his words.

She exhaled and shook her head, trying not to read too much into it. Trying, and failing. “For some reason, fighting a bunch of idiots in the hills doesn’t seem as appealing as it did ten minutes ago.”

His brow lifted. “Troubling indeed.”

She shot him a pointed stare, heart still beating a touch too fast. “You’re welcome to come, if you like. Although if Rainier joins us, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t insult him and his entire order again.”

His expression darkened, though he inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Another thing for which I should apologize.”

Roslyn grinned. “One more with enthusiasm, please.”

He chuckled, and fell into step behind her as she walked around the gangway to find a small group waiting for them. Iron Bull, Krem, Hawke, Skinner, and Charter gave them varying looks of interest, though Iron Bull was the only one who seemed focused on the change in her demeanor, while Charter watched them with the unerring eyes of someone filing away information for later perusal. _Spies on spies on spies…_

“Thank you for the invitation, but I will leave you to your hunt,” Solas said, stepping around her to make his way back into the courtyard. He paused, amusement flickering in the corner of his eyes. “Perhaps I shall endeavor to get to know your new recruit.”

“Play nice,” she warned.

He gave her a quick half-smile, and nodded his assent. “Always, Inquisitor.”

She turned purposefully to keep from watching him walk away.

“You know, your worship,” Krem said pleasantly, adjusting the grip on his warhammer with a casual air, “I’m starting to get jealous of you having these private talks with people. Makes a fellow feel downright ignored.”

“Oh, Krem,” she said with a wide smile, “it’s only the troublesome ones that get a talking to, right Hawke?”

Hawke feigned indifference, splaying a hand over his chest. “I’m sorry, are you done snapping at me now?”

“Such insubordination,” she tutted, winking at a stone-faced Charter, “whatever shall I do with you all?”

She let them follow behind, trying not to think too hard about the idea that the spirit currently connected to her mark had been…formed by her. With a spike of frustration, she realized that Solas had been right, in a way. She’d made the wolf to deal with the vast amount of power funneled through her by the explosion at the Conclave. Even when he was wrong, it was just in execution, not theory.

“Work that out, did you?” Iron Bull asked quietly as they began trekking into the hills to the west.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bull.”

_Ass_ , she thought with a begrudging smile. 


	25. Serve, Seek, Reign, Roam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Wunderkind" by Alanis Morissette](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NNxuI61ICmQ&index=25&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&t=0s)

Roslyn and her small team, consisting of the Chargers, Charter, a few other scouts, and, to everyone’s mild surprise and discomfort, Isahn, left for the eastern rim of Lake Calenhad the next day. Iron Bull made no comment other than to give her a raised brow when she told him. Dalish in particular seemed upset by the addition to the party, but didn't make a fuss. Whatever her feelings about the people she'd left, they certainly weren't fluffy.

They made slow progress, closing rifts or helping the scattered villages recover from demon attacks, even the occasional darkspawn.  In a missive from Leliana, she’d learned that a few Grey Wardens had been spotted at the edges of the Bannorn, and even more further south. This, added to the information Warden Aeducan had given them about sightings along the Brecilian Forest, meant that the Wardens were not bothered with hiding anymore. 

Whatever they were doing in the Korcari Wilds, they certainly weren’t fulfilling their sacred duty to the surrounding countryside. More than one village Roslyn had passed through had been nearly overwhelmed by darkspawn. The creatures were roving in small bands at random, attacking and wreaking mindless havoc, sprouting up in the middle of the night and cutting through towns and farms without reason or, seemingly, any direction. Signs of an impending Blight were making everyone nervous, and it was with relief and hope that the villagers welcomed her. 

They gave her food and pressed coins or other family heirlooms into her palm, told her of their prayers and blessed her with tears in their eyes. It was all she could do to stay, to hear them mumble pieces of the Chant, to listen to their stories of loss. Even if her skin still crawled and it made her feel like a fraud, she would sit with them, if it meant a bit of peace. 

Roslyn had heard stories of the horde’s chaos at its height during the Fifth Blight. Its churning blanket of ruin and destruction had spread across Ferelden in a matter of months and the lingering effects were still present today. Fields black and rotted, still fallow after almost a decade, entire forests burned down to eradicate the Blight from reaching crops and towns. Crestwood was just one example of how long it would take this country to recover. 

She didn’t want to think what the appearance of another archdemon, so soon after the last, was doing to their dreams. 

Even if the few darkspawn they’d encountered were barely more than shambling corpses. They wielded swords and wore armor, but there was little else to distinguish them from lesser demons. Though, this far south, she reasoned, and out beyond the reach of most lords of the Bannorn, in that no-man’s land between the plains and the southern swamps, the villagers were reliant only on themselves and what intervention the Maker saw fit to send them. A shambling corpse was more than enough to kill.

They made their way carefully along the lake, stopping every few days to close a rift, spending a night outside a village, if they could, and moving on where Roslyn sensed more tears in the Veil.

And through it all, Roslyn began training with Isahn.

The first thing she learned was that his teasing nature did not extend to his style of teaching. In fact, he shouted quite a lot for a man who otherwise spent the majority of his time sitting at the edge of camp smoking, whittling, and making snide comments whenever she tried to eat with him.

The second was that she had no fucking idea what she was doing. 

For the first hour of her training on the day after they left Crestwood, he had her carry a large rock up a hill. And back down a hill. And up again. He didn’t give her an explanation when she asked, repeatedly, in increasing frustration, how this had anything to do with fighting. He merely told her he was building her discipline. He didn’t even grin or wink at her. He just waited and watched. 

He snapped at her if she stopped for rest. He told her to begin at the bottom of the hill every time she dropped the boulder. And he allowed her no room to slack or relax.

When her arms began to ache and her legs burned, her shirt so drenched in sweat that it was plastered to her back and stomach, she wondered idly if the ancient elves had made a habit of attacking their instructors in protest. 

After that, he told her to raise the boulder without using her hands. This, at least, she could do well. She wrapped tendrils of arcane energy over the rock, pulling it into the air with ease. She grinned at the elf, arching a brow. 

He nodded, thoroughly unimpressed, and said, “Keep it in the air until I return.”

Isahn might have been gone for a few minutes or an hour, she quickly stopped caring where he was. When he came back, the boulder had dipped from her initial, confident height. It was hovering only a few inches off the ground, twitching every few seconds as her hold slipped. Her hands shook over her knees and her jaw was clenched in concentration. She barely heard him return at all, her entire focus bent into keeping the Maker-damned boulder off the ground. 

“You can let it go now,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. 

It fell and she let out a low cry of exertion. She folded over her knees, sucking in deep breaths as she tried to calm her racing heart. _Maker’s fucking balls_ , that was harder than it should have been. 

When Roslyn finally looked up, it was to find Isahn watching her with an arched brow, two long, freshly carved staves in his hand. Her mind zeroed in on them, and unease rose in the pit of her stomach.

“Having second thoughts, Inquisitor?”

The immediate spike of anger was enough to get her to her feet, jaw clenched. 

He just smiled, content to wait until she settled. 

She was coming to realize that the old elf did not smile like normal people smiled, to express happiness or excitement. No, Isahn smiled like a predator about to snap into the neck of unsuspecting prey. 

So fast she jumped in surprise, he threw one of the staves to her. She fumbled, but managed to catch it before it fell. 

“Cast a simple spell through the staff.”

Roslyn looked from the staff to Isahn, wondering if this was his version of a joke. He’d seen her fight before. “I don’t cast with a staff.”

“I had guessed as much.”

She inhaled, memories of instructors staring down at her and other apprentices snickering behind their hands as she stood in the center of a large stone room flashing at the front of her mind. “There’s a reason.”

His brow lifted. “I am sure there are many, and at least one of them is because you look intimidating without one. I didn’t ask for a reason, however. I asked for you to cast.”

“That I can do, but I can’t cast _with_ this.” She held up the staff, smelling of sharp cedar and sap. It was remarkably smooth for being carved so quickly from what she assumed was an actual tree. 

“And why do you think that?”

His gaze was clear, patient. She waited for him to make a joke about her inability, to laugh at the knowledge that she was woefully inept at anything less subtle than a bolt of energy.

But it didn’t come, which was almost worse. 

“Years of frustration and disappointment.” She did her best to keep her expression cool and unaffected, even as heat flushed over her chest.

“Your instructors in your tower told you this?” Again, no judgement, no ramping up for a grin. That lethal, predatory grace was there in his stillness, but it didn’t extend to his eyes. Not then, anyway. 

She wet her lips and shook her head, trying to quell the frustration rising in her throat. What did it bleeding matter? “My _instructors_ told me I was too dim to figure out how to channel my energy outside of myself, and that I would one day learn the cost of my inadequacy.”

_Wills can be broken, Apprentice Trevelyan._

"But as I think I've done quite well for myself without a staff," she continued, shoving down the insecurity where it usually resided, forgotten and unnecessary, "I never bothered to give it much thought."

His expression hardened, and when he did smile, it was a cold, annoyed thing, and not directed toward her. “It is not the ignorance of a child when they are unable to learn, but the failure of a teacher for not correcting their instruction. Any fool with a basic understanding of magic would know you are gifted with unnatural ability.”

Her lips parted in surprise, mind going blank as she realized that he was being absolutely serious. “I—,” she stumbled, feeling distinctly uncomfortable with an honest compliment from him, “well, that’s kind of you, but I—”

“It isn’t kind. It’s the truth.” He folded his arms around his staff, face cool and impassive once more. “A truth which does not exclude you from trying again. Just because you have not cast through a staff in the past, it does not mean that you can’t.”

She breathed for a beat, a small bead of anxiety forming in the back of her mind. “I fight with a sword.”

Now his smile _was_ for her. “The ability to cast through a staff does not negate the ability to cast while fighting with a sword. I hesitate to think where you got that idea. Or is it not the practice of human mages to learn how to defend themselves without magic?” 

“Not really,” she muttered.

“Sometimes I wonder how they conquered my people so easily,” he mused, voice going sharp in deep-seated anger.

She frowned. “I wouldn’t discount their efforts so quickly.”

“You wouldn't?” He hummed in thought, a strange interest shining in his eyes, the same that appeared every time she seemed to say something he wasn’t expecting. He shrugged. “In any case, it is the height of idiocy to think magic and martial arts are somehow separate. That one does not lend itself to the other. You of all people should understand that, I think?”

To that, she had no response. It was connected, of course it was. But it didn’t change the fact that this, the first and most important test of a mage’s competence, was beyond her. 

He sighed, and she was surprised by the softness in his tone when he said, “Magic is intention made manifest. It is easiest to direct energy through something physical, to ground it in the world, lest your intention become divided. You have managed with mild success to work around your limitations, but they are still limitations. They will continue to be until you know the basics.”

“But if I know how—”

“You think you don’t channel your magic through a focus? You do, except the focus is you.” He arched a brow. “If you cannot cast without shattering a staff, what stress do you think you are placing on your body when you ask it to channel your considerable power? Your body might bend easier, but it will break, in time. As the weak bend before the strong, your will is dominant to your physical form. I have known you only a short time, but I can see that clearly—your determination will win over your blood and flesh. Whether in a decade from now or a month, you will not know, but it is inevitable. _Unless_ you learn how to channel without breaking that staff.” He gave her a small, almost kind smile. “Believe me, _da’shyl_ , I have no interest in mocking you. Not in this.” He winked at her.

Her scowl was quick. “What does that mean, anyway? You’ve called me that a few times now.”

His smile was saccharine. “I’d be more than happy to teach you the language of my people _after_ you learn how to cast without shattering this staff.”

She unclenched her jaw after a moment’s conflict, and swallowed the lump in her throat. 

For all her work to control her magic, she’d never considered the effect it might have to treat herself like an instrument, a tool. But it made sense—that must be why it had taken her so long to recover after her months-long battle with the wolf and closing the Breach. She’d been practically useless during the battle at Haven. 

Roslyn forced herself to hold his gaze as she spoke the fear lodged at the forefront of her mind. “I don’t know how."

Why she admitted it, to this stranger, of all people, she had no idea. Maybe she was tired from all the idiotic boulder tricks, or she was too concerned with the idea that she might one day _literally_ break apart from her inability to control her magic. 

Or, perhaps, there was something oddly comforting in the absolute lack of pity in his eyes. There was just patience, a firm denial of her own assertions. And just a bit of playful challenge that made her want to live up to his task. If only to wipe the grin off his face.

Isahn’s expression did not soften, but when he spoke, his voice was low, even. “Ignorance is nothing to be ashamed of, _da'shyl_. Only the unwillingness to _correct_ one’s ignorance is shameful.”

She said nothing, but tightened her grip on the staff. It was odd after so many years—her hands did not remember the proper position and technique. It might have been a decade since she last held one with any intention of casting. She wanted to ask _how_ she should expect to cast through a freshly carved piece of wood when iron had broken to bits at the slightest touch of her magic. But she was older now, and the wolf might help things. If the last year had taught her anything, it was that she didn’t know much where her magic was concerned. 

Jaw clenched, feet braced, she looked down from Isahn’s expectant gaze. She wrapped both hands around the wood and took a deep breath. 

“Relax your grip,” he said, and she stopped herself from frowning at him. “For now, simply let the magic flow from your hands to the staff. Don’t bother trying to cast anything complex. Let the wood hold your magic.”

She swallowed, tension thudding in her chest, and pulled on a trickle of energy. 

It sparked across her skin, brilliant white and silver, and dispersed immediately as the impulse overrode her better judgement. Drifts of it floated up into the air, taunting her. Her cheeks burned. Maker, this was embarrassing.

She ground her teeth as she shook her head, berating herself for being so damn jumpy. What was the worst that could happen—she would snap the staff and confirm what she already knew to be true?

“Try again.”

She looked up to find Isahn watching her with an impassive eye. “You might want to step back if this does shatter.”

A smile tugged at his lips, but he didn't move. “Try again.”

She took another deep breath, and let her magic rise. Again, it sparked over her skin, but this time she directed it toward the staff before it could disperse. With her mind wrapped up in its flow, it was easy to feel when it passed under her hands and entered the wood. Easy to know the exact moment it left her immediate touch.

It spread and grew faster than she’d expected, humming up and down the wooden staff with an eager, easy current. Part of her marveled at the feeling—separate from her body, but present. She could direct it if she chose, yet it wasn’t sparking inside her like it usually did. 

But what came next was so familiar it hurt. The spiraling loss of control as it built too quickly. The feeling of drifting up and up, too fast, the tether cut between her and the body that grounded her. Her aura swelled and rioted, reaching for something to hold onto before she spun away for good. 

When it was housed in her flesh, she could feel the magic’s boundaries, could judge the limitations and move within them. She could tell when it was becoming too much. 

Housed in the staff, she could only watch as it continued to grow, and feel a sense of primal fear at the swelling up inside her. Power untethered, unbound, vast and foreign and _too much, too much._

“Breathe,” Isahn’s voice cut through her panic, giving her something to focus on while her magic lapped and sparked along the staff’s length. “You control the magic. It is borne of you and it is yours to direct. You fear only yourself when you allow it to overwhelm you.”

Her breath was ragged, not with exertion, but fear, as she tried pull the magic back. But it was too late. 

The staff vibrated and shook, and she only had a second to turn her face as it shattered in her hands. Splinters flew all around her, a few slicing shallow cuts into her arms. Her magic released into the air, and guilty relief spread down her spine. She was on the ground again, even if part of her hated the sensation. Always the conflict between needing control and longing for the release. 

When she looked back, she found Isahn standing unharmed with a faint shimmer around him. He’d been quick enough to cast a barrier, apparently. 

His gaze traveled over her arms, to her hands where they were still held in the air around a staff that was scattered on the ground between them. 

She waited for the twist of disappointment in his eyes, the knowing, frustrated look that would pass over his expression. 

But he merely shifted his staff, stepped closer, and reached out for one of her arms without a word. A red sheen of magic spread across her skin, softer and more comforting than she’d expected from him. Fresh rain broke over her tongue as an echo of baying hounds drifted in the back of her mind, a slow, deep tang of oiled leather in her nostrils, and, strangely, the serenity of a rising sun. A surprisingly domestic, grounded aura, if there was such a thing.

She caught herself searching for the potential Solas had spoken about when comparing the aura of spirits and people, but couldn’t find it. _Not an abomination, then_ , she thought absently, still waiting for the other shoe to drop and her insecurity to rise. _Good to know._

The self-loathing didn't come. 

Her cuts healed, Isahn stepped back, held up the second staff, and gave her a wide, comforting smile. “Try again.”

 

~  ✧ ~

 

It took Roslyn another eight days before she could cast without breaking the staff. 

Every practice started the same, with her carrying the boulder up and down a hill, if they could find one, or merely jogging in a wide circle if they couldn’t. She would hold up the boulder with her magic while Isahn found and carved two staves. Sometimes, he would send her out to get long branches for him while he smoked, giving her nothing but a small paring knife and a word of luck. 

He took to shouting elven lessons at her while she scrambled through the sparse lakeside forests and tried not to trip over herself, searching for branches long and thick enough to turn into staves. She got quite good at severing wood with her magic when she found out how long it took to saw through a branch with a knife the size of her ring finger. By the second week she knew three distinct elven swears and the beginnings of a curse on one’s mother. 

Every day for nearly a month, he trained her, progressing slowly from menial tasks like carrying the boulder to new forms of the _Vir Ghen’aran_ she needed to memorize. She kept expecting him to tell her about the Arcane Warriors, to explain what each form meant and how it had come to be, the history behind the technique passed down by some or another ancient elf after days of hopping about in the woods by themselves, b ut he never did. 

He didn’t seem to want to talk about himself at all, on the few occasions she’d tried to press him. The most she got from their awkward dinner chats, sometimes joined by Iron Bull or Charter, was that he traveled a lot, he’d left his clan a long time ago, and he didn’t seem bothered by Dalish’s outright avoidance of him. He seemed to find it amusing, actually. 

The elven woman had taken to glaring at him from across the fire. Iron Bull had told Roslyn it had something to do with bad blood between her and her clan, but Roslyn hadn’t pressed the issue. If they weren’t about to kill each other, they could work it out themselves.

When they approached villages, he made himself scarce, preferring to camp apart from the humans. She thought at first it was his own aversion, but she came to suspect that he was doing it for their benefit. He certainly didn't treat the humans of the Chargers any differently, or her scouts. No, the humans of this region were scared enough, and from the way Dalish also drew frightened glances, they'd probably never seen a Dalish elf in their whole lives. It was surprisingly kind from a man who'd claimed to not care about the humans of Crestwood. 

He also deftly maneuvered around her obvious attempts to glean anything more about Solas’s past. The only thing that came from her inelegant questioning was more of his sharp interest.

Slowly, the weeks passed, and she found that the itch she’d been living with for the past few months was getting more and more bearable. Her focus was easier, her mind less cluttered. She was even sleeping better. By the time they were camping outside Gherlen’s Pass, the familiar peaks of the Frostbacks welcoming her home, she felt almost—normal. Or normal for _her_ , anyway.

Roslyn pitched her tent on the night before returning to Skyhold, stretching as the last of the campfire died down and her party made their way to their tents. The staff she had yet to break was propped beside her, its edges a bit smoother from her using it for the past week. 

She’d managed to cast a simple jet of white flame that day. A feat that should not have been possible for her. She wasn’t proud, exactly. It was nice, but the more time she spent with Isahn and his peculiar brand of teaching, the more she realized that she had a long way to go until she could count herself a success. But it was comforting to know that she wasn't wholly inept.

A smile tugged at her mouth. _How humble,_ she thought, brushing against the wolf when it rose to send her a thread of amusement. 

She found Isahn where he always sat, back to the fire at the edge of camp and staring into the darkening sky. He had put away his whittling tonight, the same long-necked bird he'd started back in Caer Bronach. 

“This Skyhold you’ve told me about,” he started before she walked into view, displaying his uncanny knack for being able to see out the back of his head, “is it truly hidden within these mountains?”

“About as hidden as a large fortress with three tiers and a full army can be.” She settled with a sigh, stretching out her legs. Her thighs burned from that morning’s practice, a study in how long she could balance on one foot while maintaining a constant current through her staff. 

He said nothing, but she saw his jaw clench. 

“Don’t believe me if you like, but it’s there.”

“You’ll forgive me, _da’shyl_ , but an elven fortress in the middle of these mountains sounds…improbable at best.” 

“It’s not elven. It used to be, before it was rebuilt by Fereldens.” She frowned. “Or Orlesians. It’s had a storied past, but the foundations are elven.”

“We’ll see.”

She snorted, leaning back to gaze up at the sky. The sun was setting behind them, a deep indigo fading to burnished orange over her head. The beginnings of stars peeked out from the darkening firmament. Once again, the sense of home settled at the base of her spine. She was getting used to these stars. 

“I wanted to give you a warning before we arrive tomorrow, actually,” she said after a few moments.

Isahn looked at her, confusion lifting his brow. “What could you possibly have to warn me of? Is a Chantry priest going to throw holy water at me the moment I enter? I’ll have you know that the Dalish don’t melt or burn like your—,” he paused, inclined his head, “ _the humans_ believe.”

“I wanted to give your old limbs some warning so you could leap out of the way in time, just in case.”

He laughed, a wide grin on his face as he looked back up at the stars.

Her brow furrowed in amusement.  She guessed Isahn was old, as far as elves went. He certainly had the attitude of a man who had lost his ability to give a shit many years ago—but every now and then, when he was caught off guard or particularly amused by her, his face changed into something hard and bright. 

“Besides Dalish,” she motioned with her head back to camp, “you will be the only Dalish elf in Skyhold. I’d be ready for some odd stares, is all.”

“I see.”

“Not that you should accept anyone giving you a hard time,” she added, inwardly thinking that anyone who tried to bully him would very quickly find themselves on the other side of his lethal grin. “If they do, you have my permission to push back. Or you can come find me. I’ve tried very hard to make Skyhold a place that welcomes everyone, but…well.” _The world is the way it is._

Since her intervention between the elven worker, Iwan, and his overseer before becoming Inquisitor, there had been no more incidents of outright cruelty to elves. None that she’d heard of, anyway. But she couldn’t be everywhere at once, and she knew firsthand that most oppression wasn’t the kind that could be seen by even the most diligent eyes. 

He turned to her, a faint line in his brow. “I appreciate the concern, however much I don’t need it.” 

“I didn’t say you needed it,” she murmured. “But you have it all the same. I don’t know how much experience you’ve had with the rest of the world, but most people don’t even know someone who’s seen a Dalish elf. The Chantry’s been very eager to paint your people as villains.”

He flashed white teeth at her in the dim light. “I thought your Inquisition was not affiliated with the Chantry?”

She frowned, shooting him a hard glare. “We’re not,” she said, already having repeated the insistence more than once when asked. 

“I am well aware of the Chantry’s offenses against the Dalish, _da’shyl_. You don’t need to—”

“Fine,” she said shortly, lying back and closing her eyes. _Ass_. “Forget I said anything.”

She breathed deeply, frustrated by her inability to read the damn man. One minute he was being kind and patient, the next treating her like some simpleton with that terrifying smile of his. She might not be afraid of him anymore, but it still pissed her off. 

He was silent for a time, and Roslyn drifted with the faint sounds of the wind off the mountain peaks, the cold air making her feel vital and whole. Her anger ebbed and she breathed deeply. 

“Do you involve yourself this much in every member of your Inquisition’s life?”

Her jaw clenched and she forced herself not to open her eyes. “I do when the person in question has just spent the last month training me. I do when this person is an elf, a _Dalish_ elf, and is about to be subjected to an intense amount of scrutiny because of his association with me .” 

She didn’t add that she wasn’t entirely sure if he wanted to keep teaching her once they returned to Skyhold. It made her nervous. Because while he had seemed happy, or at least, _willing_ to train her while they were on the road, she still didn’t know why he was here in the first place. 

“So you would not show the same interest were I human?”

Her eyes flashed open to find him smiling curiously down at her, black eyes glinting with interest. 

“ _No_ , I wouldn’t.”

“Because of your mixed heritage, or does your heart bleed for your distant cousins in the forest on principle?”

_Maker’s balls, really?_ Her teeth ground together as she sat up. “Are you actually offended that I would be more aware of the shit elves face because I'm half-elf, or because you don’t want my help?”

He said nothing, but the glint in his eye softened. 

“I don’t know what you were expecting, _hahren_ ,” she muttered, purposefully mispronouncing the word as she rose with a grunt and got to her feet, “but I’m starting to get the impression that you think me less capable of a nuanced thought than a fucking bronto.”

“More nuanced than a bronto,” he said with a laugh, “but maybe not a dracolisk.”

She rolled her eyes, bracing her hands on her hips as he considered her.

Something passed over his expression then, a hardness in his eyes, as he turned back to his contemplation of the sky. “I am unconcerned for the inevitable intrigue your people will spin at my presence. My only concern is to help where I can.” He paused, tilted his head, though he didn’t look at her. “And to ensure your training continues.”

Roslyn stared, caught off guard by the offer. She’d expected to work harder for it. “You’d be interested in continuing to train me, then?”

“I would.”

“Oh. Good, then.” She shifted on her feet, stepping forward to see his face. “You don’t have to, you know.”

He looked up with a slow, languid smile. “I know.”

The silence between them grew tense as she tried to read his expression. Frustration rose up her throat, and she asked without thought, “Who are you?”

He didn't so much as flinch. “Is this a rhetorical question?”

She said nothing and didn’t look away. 

“Someone who can help you,” he finally said, holding her gaze with a focused calm. “Beyond that, it isn’t important.”

Her jaw clenched, but she murmured, “I disagree.”

“I’m hurt, _da’shyl_. Here I thought we were getting along swimmingly.” His smile sharpened at her silence. “I offer my knowledge to you in exchange for the opportunity to help preserve my people’s legacy. It’s nothing more than that. You have my word.”

“How generous of you.”

He laughed. “If you want to call it generosity, I would not argue.”

Again, she kept silent, knowing she was being unreasonable. After all, she’d been equally as reticent to share her life’s story when she first joined, or was forced into, the Inquisition. He seemed like a good man, or at the very least not a bad one and if she were being honest with herself, his expertise was worth enough to ignore the fact that she knew nothing about him. Because whatever he was, he was not lying about his ability. 

She could tell from the small amount he’d shown her that he was skilled beyond anything she’d seen in her Circle, or even heard about in the discipline of the Knight Enchanters who'd protected the Divine. 

Her magic was changing, growing more subtle and fluid, and like a door closed between her and that wealth of knowledge, he stood, offering her the key for no mention of his past. 

And he fucking knew it, too. 

“You don’t have to tell me your tragic past or your motivations,” she finally conceded, crossing her arms and trying not to sound like a petulant child, “but you should know that I count my people’s safety higher than my own. I know I’ve said it before, but if your presence leads to any of them getting hurt or injured, or Maker forbid, _killed_ , I don’t care who you are or what you’ve taught me.” She paused, letting her voice drop and ensuring that he held her gaze. “I will respond in kind.”

She expected him to shrug her off, to give her that pedantic smile again. 

But he merely nodded in understanding. “I would expect nothing less, Inquisitor.”

“Good.” She paused, riding the urge to continue before she could stop herself. “Because the alternative is available as well, if you want it.”

His smile faded somewhat, a line appearing in his brow. “What an odd thing you are, to offer friendship and promise retribution in the same breath.”

“You’ve spent enough time with me to know that I don’t particularly enjoy being called _odd_ ,” she murmured.

She liked him well enough, but she couldn’t read him for shit. It was frustrating.

“ _Ir abelas, da’shyl_.” He inclined his head.

“You still haven’t told me what that means.”

He took a deep breath, hummed a faint laugh that carried a lifetime’s worth of memory. He was quiet for so long, she thought he wouldn't respond, but then he said, “It means 'little star.' ”

She blinked, and her frustration vanished. A prick of light welled within her chest, and she suddenly found it very hard to breathe.

“Don’t get emotional. It’s an old nickname for children who burn too bright and tend to take up more space than they should.” He grinned at her, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s not a compliment.”

“I don’t know,” she murmured. “I think it sounds nice.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Roslyn wrestled with the sheer contradiction of him, her desire to needle some affection out of him warring with her distrust. 

She shouldn’t care this much for an unsavory stranger who’d wandered out of the woods one day and offered her help with little to no explanation, but she did. The last time she’d had a teacher who’d ever understood her so well was the old elf in Ostwick, her only bright memory of that terrible place. It made things harder piece out and keep straight. To remember that she wasn't a lonely child hanging on a kind man's arm for stories and the ability to protect herself.

“Just be ready for some odd glances, is all,” she finally said, giving him her own wide, hopefully threatening smile. “Especially if you’re going to be my official trainer.”

“Is it a titled position?” he laughed, eyes flicking over her face in close study.

She shrugged. “They made a half-elf mage Inquisitor. Maker knows what they’ll allow these days.”

“You’ll find quite a bit, if you’re the only thing standing between the world and a long, painful end.” He paused, and his voice grew soft. “I appreciate the concern, _da’shyl._ ”

“ _Mirtha mala serannas,_ ” she said, fumbling the words a bit, “ _hahren_.”

He sighed and shook his head. “Your pronunciation is terrible.”

“ _Jedh’alas,_ ” she said with another smile, choosing one of the milder swears he’d taught her over the previous month, not caring whether her pronunciation was correct or not. 

His laughter followed her back to her tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elven**  
>  _Jedh'alas_ \- Eat dirt.  
>  _Mirtha mala serannas_ \- I honor your thanks. (You're welcome.)


	26. Howling Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Floki Appears to Kill Athelstan" by Trevor Morris](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W8uyMJQH9pY&t=0s&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&index=26) | ["Trettanda Nátt" by Eivør](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NW-MoIupw7Y&t=0s&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&index=27)

The moment Roslyn opened her eyes in the Fade, she knew something was wrong. 

Darkness filled her vision. Shifting black smoke and grey wisps of light drifted in front of her in a void. It hadn’t taken this long for her to become aware in the Fade in months. The last time had been she had been strapped to a rack with Envy breathing down her throat.

She reeled at the thought, feeling for the wolf, for something she could hold onto, only to find nothing. 

There was no tether, no sensation beyond her own beating heart. Her chest burned, but it wasn’t the comforting warmth of her wolf. 

Panic filtered into her mind as she turned, tried to stumble forward. She hadn’t been alone in the Fade since the attack on Haven. Her wolf was always there, in, well, _spirit_ , if not form. The Fade was not black and formless, hiding secrets and demons and childhood fears, not for her, not anymore. It shouldn’t be so cold and empty.

She took one step, chest constricting as she struggled to breathe— _it’s here, it isn’t gone, don’t panic_ , she told herself, trying to keep from falling apart. 

And the world reformed. 

A great rolling plain of swaying grass spread before her, golden and stark against a bank of dark storm-clouds. She stood between two black pillars on a high tower made of sandstone. All around her the world was flat. 

The Frostbacks had vanished, along with the sparse wildflowers amidst rocky hills, and her open, starry sky. Wherever she was, she was a long way from Gherlen’s Pass. 

Roslyn blinked rapidly against the strange vista before her, trying again to find the tether that lead to her wolf, but still there was nothing. She buried down and pulled at her aura, anything to spark its consciousness, but it was like the wolf had never been born in the first place. She was alone. 

Her breath came faster, and she tried to shift the Fade, to make it something she recognized. But it wouldn’t move. Even her aura seemed caged within her, and all the pathways she usually tread to bring it to bear were dormant. Her body was silent, and unresponsive. 

Except for that blistering, burning heat in the center of her chest. 

_This is not real_ , she told herself. She was _not_ frozen inside her own body. This was all happening inside her mind. She had her magic. She had her wolf. 

She looked around, trying to figure out what was going on, and froze. 

The building on which she stood was large, tiers rising from a center dais to tower over her head, marked by intricate statues of curling, elegant bronze. Hundreds of hooded figures knelt on the tiers, wearing deep, blood red robes. All of them were still, with their heads bowed to hide their faces. 

In front of Roslyn, only a few feet away, stood a young woman. Head shaved, a fine sash of black silk tied over her eyes, she wore a grey robe that billowed in the sharp wind blowing off the plain. Faint outlines shimmered in the robe, runes threaded along the sleeves and collar, what might have been constellations sewn into the panels of fabric that shifted like velveteen or silk brocade. 

A gnawing sense of familiarity washed over Roslyn as the young woman shifted, and began to speak in a soft, whispering voice. 

It was the same feeling she’d experienced when she witnessed the Alamarri mage perform her ritual in Val Royeaux, when the blood mage had been killed by the winged woman in the Hinterlands. 

Her heart leapt into her throat and an unsteady calm threaded through her thoughts. 

The young woman kept speaking in a language Roslyn couldn’t understand, but sounded oddly familiar. Her voice threaded through the air as if it were borne on invisible wings, raised the hair on the back of Roslyn's neck. 

_This is not the Fade_ , Roslyn knew with a horrible certainty. She had spent months walking the Fade with her wolf, had come to recognize the feeling of weightless possibility, the pleasant hum and warmth of spiritual energy. There was a lightness to her step there, a sense of comfort. 

Now she felt heavy and fixed, contained in a memory, or dream, or _something_ , that held no spirits. She was caught in an invisible vice, her aura unable to flare or spread, her consciousness bound to her body alone. 

The young woman in front of her was not reenacting anything. She was simply…acting. All the gathered watchers were not spirits or demons, but present, as real as they might be in the waking world. 

It was suffocating. 

Roslyn moved slowly, knowing that none of the kneeling crowd or the young woman in the center of the dais would see her, but feeling as if any sudden movement might draw unwanted attention regardless. 

Because there was something here. Something beyond this scene, that pulsed in time with the flaming core at her heart. 

Her hands itched for a sword not belted at her waist, aura dead and dormant inside her chest. It was there, but she couldn’t access it. Every movement was leaden, hard, as if she’d forgotten how to walk. Her fear turned to a deep anticipation, honed and focused. Waiting. 

As she moved, a small corridor appeared in the center of the raised tiers, revealing a strip of a vast, glittering city that spread beyond the tower for miles. Spires of gold and red metal speared the open sky, not covered in the same black cloud approaching the tower. It sat in the center of a large plain, more rolling hills leading off into the distance as far as she could see. 

Jaw clenched, eyes hard and searching for any sign of the winged woman, for a flash of white crystal, Roslyn stepped to the far side of the dais, and pressed herself against the onyx pillar. 

Rationally, she knew that nothing could hurt her here. If it was anything like the other two experiences—her mind scrambled to classify this as anything other than a _vision_ —she only had to wait, and watch the scene unfold. 

Like the flashes she’d gotten while running from Envy, or in Haven’s chantry as she somehow, impossibly, remembered the passage down into the tunnels and the mountains beyond. 

It wasn’t a dream at all. It was fixed and unchanging. She was only a witness. 

That it had taken her this long to figure that out was fucking frustrating. 

She faced the robed woman now, pressed as she was between the dais and the tiers. Obscured by a large black sash and painted in dusty pigment, she couldn’t see much of her face beyond her youth. One chalky line spread down her nose and crossed her lips, feathering into a kind of mock necklace on her open collar. Her skin was a sallow brown, and the black pigment, powdered kohl, maybe, looked fresh and flaked in the sharp wind. 

She wore no ornament except a circlet of burnished bronze, simple and slight. Hands folded within her robe, she continued to speak. Her whisper-quiet voice only seemed to amplify the silence of the plain, separated as the tower was from the glittering city beyond. 

Roslyn chanced a glance at the black pillar at her back, at its twin on the other side of the dais. Serpents were carved into the stone, obsidian maybe, or onyx, twisting over themselves and forming a fluid, elegant script. 

With a jolt, she realized why they pulled at her mind, and why the language sounded so familiar. The serpents looked almost exactly like the armband Dorian wore, and the words from the robed woman sounded like the curses he sometimes strung together when he got frustrated. 

_Tevinter._

But not any Tevinter she knew. The robes were archaic, loose and draped in a fashion that would have been out of place anywhere in Thedas. She had no idea what kind of clothes people in Tevinter wore, of course, but she couldn’t picture Dorian in these ornate, oversized things. Or any of the Venatori she’d seen, for that matter. Even Calpernia, Roslyn recalled the woman in her corseted, lethal, black leather armor, would have looked odd. 

And somehow, she knew deep in her gut that whatever was happening, it had happened a long, long time ago.

It took her a moment to realize that the young woman had stopped speaking, and turned from the kneeling crowd. Again, Roslyn was struck by the woman's face, how strange it was. She barely looked human, with the harsh paint and eye mask. 

But as she pulled her hands from the folds of her robe, and clasped them in front of her, Roslyn caught the slight tremor in her lips, the quick breath that made her chest rise and fall. 

A hooded figure broke from the rest of the crowd, and approached the young woman—some kind of priestess, Roslyn began to assume. 

Held in their hands was a large, polished skull of bleached white bone, curling ram's horns inlaid with alternating rings of bronze and black stone rising almost two feet into the air above the skull itself. The figure raised the skull high, and placed it with steady hands on the young priestess’s head. 

At that moment, the sky cracked, a lance of lightning illuminating the golden grass, and thunder raced toward the tower.

The figure held a small cup of black liquid to the priestess. Roslyn could smell whatever it was from where she was pressed against the pillar, a cloying, sickly-sweet odor of overripe fruit curling over her tongue and into her nostrils. She gagged, tried not to breathe, as the priestess downed the contents of the cup. Tendrils of black liquid dripped past her lips and slid into the folds of her robe. Where it trailed, her sallow brown skin sizzled and grew red. 

The priestess dropped the cup, the sharp sound as it clattered across the polished sandstone floor jarring in the silence. It took a moment for it to take effect, the priestess hunched over as whatever she’d consumed worked its way down her throat and into her stomach. Steam began to rise from her skin, and when the priestess lifted her head, smoke poured from her nostrils. A flash of silver appeared from the folds of her robe, and she cut deep into one raised palm with a small knife. 

Roslyn’s hands clenched, a phantom flutter of pain whispering along her own left palm. 

_What kind of ritual is this?_   Her chest pulsed and she felt her eyes pulled toward the dais. 

Blood dripped from the priestess’s hand and hit the marble floor of the tower. 

A tremor shook the pillar at Roslyn’s back, and she moved just as it split open. 

Shadows drifted out of the cleft in the stone, carrying faint echoes of screams and otherworldly moans. She jerked back as a streak of something flew past her, catching only the vague outline of a face, and bright yellow eyes. 

Disgust and horror twisted into her gut as she saw more outlines, more colors flitting past, pulled toward the ever-growing funnel of energy pooling with the priestess’s spilled blood. 

They were spirits. _Spirits_ housed in the black pillars. 

Anger, useless and empty, surged into her chest. There was nothing she could do to stop this, vile as it was. Whatever this ritual, whatever the priestess in velvet robes was doing, it had already happened. 

This kind of magic was foul, fouler even than the power Coryphea had used to try and take the anchor, so much worse than simple blood magic, and though she couldn’t feel it herself, her aura trapped inside her body, she knew it would ring with corruption. 

Another tremor went through the tower, and a slick, liquid _swish_ began to flow behind her. Like the running of water in a slow stream over smooth stone. 

Dread crawled up her throat, and she knew even before she turned what she would see. 

Every single one of the hooded figures had followed their priestess, blood dripping from slit wrists and running along thin canals in the tiers at her feet. Lines of deep red ran down the center aisle and down to the sunken dais, gathering in a basin at the priestess’s feet. 

Roslyn’s stomach flipped, and her jaw clenched. What were they trying to do, if it required so much power?

The blood rose and sparked where it met the swirling cloud of spirits. The wind turned sharp, charged with the energy pulsing in the air, and the clouds in the distance roiled in answer. Tension constricted around the tower, and a building, high-pitched moan came from the pooling cloud of spirits. 

That awareness of something, or someone, grew taut, and it was all she could do to keep her eyes locked on the priestess rather than search for black eyes and silver wings.

Another flash of lightning hit the ground, closer now, followed by a deep peel of thunder—and then another sound, louder and more primal than the thunder, that shook the foundations of the tower itself. 

All thought of the spirits and the blood ritual vanished from Roslyn’s mind, her being caught in the cadence of that sound. 

A piercing, earth-shattering cry that stoked the heat in her chest and made every bone in her body tremble with remembered fear. 

A dragon’s roar. 

Unable to move, to think, to _breathe_ , she watched the priestess ripple through the haze of swirling magic. Her free hand pulled something from the folds of her robe, and Roslyn only felt a dim pulse of confirmation as she held up a shining white crystal. 

She tilted her head back, and faced the coming storm of roiling, black clouds. The crystal, the same white opal as the stone in her amulet, sparked and gleamed with a brilliant, radiant light, illuminating the priestess’s face. Tears ran down her painted cheeks, and through the haze of wind and power, her lips formed silent, unspoken words. 

The air above the priestess shimmered, and through the primal fear curled around her throat, Roslyn saw the outline of silver wings shine in the reflected light of the crystal. Another rippling shriek of animalistic fury sounded above the approaching maelstrom, but the the primal fear eased, and righteous anger flowed into its place. 

Shifting eyes the comforting black of night formed in the air, and the priestess’s face transformed into awe as she stared up at the glittering image of the winged woman. 

The moment held, a frozen slice of time where the roiling emotions inside of Roslyn dimmed, and paused. Hovered beyond time and consciousness, like a mote of starlight, a memory.

Only to be eradicated in the face of a perversion so deep it made her knees buckle. 

She fell to the ground at the same time as the priestess, the air above them shrieking to a stand-still. The winged woman vanished, the dragon’s cry turned cold, and was cut off with an echoing, anguished yelp. 

A rift, different from the ones Roslyn could close in her own time, black and rippling with shadow, appeared over the priestess’s trembling form. Behind her, the kneeling figures crumpled to the ground, the blood troughs going dry as one by one, they died.

The swirling cloud of spirits evaporated, sucked into the rift along with the remainder of the sparking blood.  The coming storm grew still, the sounds of the wind died, and silence so deep and oppressive it made her want to scream just to shatter it, just to remember what it was to hear her own voice, settled over the tower. 

Slowly, almost inevitably, a figure stepped from the rift, in the same place the winged woman had hovered only moments before. Wreathed in shadow and towering almost ten feet above the ground, it hovered in the air, sliding across the polished sandstone toward the trembling priestess with a patient, eternal gait. 

She felt like a child again, crouching before a tall, uncaring figure in voluminous skirts, ears burning as blood dripped onto her shoulders, kneeling in a tower as templars crowded around her, the sharp scent of lyrium choking its way down her throat.  Sick fear pulsed in her blood and burrowed deep, picking and ripping at the heat in her chest. She might go mad from it, if she could move. If she could think. But her mind was a silent wasteland, empty and barren, and she could do nothing but watch. 

The priestess smeared blood on the smooth ground as she jerked back, fingers scrambling, trying to rise. Her lips were open and forming words, but no sound came from them.

The shadowy figure knelt, and a hand reached out from the mass of its slowly writhing form. Fingers of bristling black flame caressed the priestess’s cheek, tilting her chin up and holding her face so she could not look away. 

It tilted its head, waiting as if there was no such thing as time. 

And when it finally spoke, the voice shredded into Roslyn’s chest and made that burning heat sputter and die, scooping her out and leaving nothing but a silence that erased, that devoured.

“Willful thing,” it whispered. It had no inflection, no tone. It was nothing. And yet her whole being bent to it.

The priestess’s shaking grew violent, seizing in fear or caught in a magic Roslyn couldn’t feel. 

“It was a noble effort.” The figure leaned in, as if for a kiss. “But I put her in the ground for a reason, girl.”

There was no sound as the tower shook. The clouds rolled back to life and charged forward, as if sped up and eager to wash over them all. Lightning arced around them and where it hit the ground, flames burst up from between the golden soil. 

The tower shifted to the side as the shadows within the figure burst out and ripped through its foundations.

The priestess did not scream as black flame engulfed her. She didn’t have time.

Roslyn didn’t turn, _couldn’t_ turn from the shadow and the priestess, but she felt the city behind her crack open. Molten fire boiled up from the ground and swallowed buildings and people alike, wiping clean that vast, rolling plain, removing the city from existence.

She felt the screams of hundred of thousands of souls break against her silent mind, knew fire and death. 

And then nothing.

Roslyn surged up from her bedroll, sucking in breath as her heart hammered a war beat in her chest. 

Her hands shook, her teeth chattered. Her skin was clammy and cold and drenched in sweat. She was nothing more than a shell, a husk, hollowed out and replaced with mindless fear. 

And then her aura sparked and answered, the wolf rose and threaded itself through her thoughts, alarmed as it read her fear. It brushed warm fur against her tear-stained cheeks, rumbled in comfort as she struggled for air. Magic danced across her skin as her aura rippled and thrummed. Vibrant, alive, _real_.

Her ragged breathing was loud in the silence of her tent. Her tent. 

She was awake. 

All at once, the reality of what she’d seen came crashing down on top of her, and her stomach revolted. 

She untangled herself from her bedroll, tripping over her feet as she tried to get up and out of her tent. Cold air hit her face and she shivered as she wrenched the flap of canvas back. Stumbling toward the edge of camp, trying to put as much distance between her and her sleeping companions as she could, she finally doubled over and emptied the contents of her stomach onto the ground. 

Her hands shook as she braced them against a boulder, retching as wave after wave of disgust and fear and sheer, overwhelming emptiness tore through her. The tower, the priestess, the canals of blood, the glittering crystal, the shadow—the _shadow_.

A small sob of fear broke from her lips, and she clapped a hand over her mouth as she shook with the effort of keeping quiet. 

Tremors raked through her body. She could barely keep standing, nearly collapsing when her stomach stopped trying to empty itself onto the ground. 

She breathed slowly, trying keep her tears silent. Her eyes closed as the wolf tried to comfort her, whimpering slightly in the back of her mind as it wrapped its tail around her feet, pressed the bridge of its snout under her chin. 

_I’m okay_ , she told it, even her thoughts shaking as she took a few staggering steps away from her mess. She found a large rock and slid down to sit against it, pushing her hair back and holding the sides of her face to keep her mind from spilling out like the contents of her stomach. _I’m okay. It’s okay._

Image after image assaulted her—the crowd of red, hooded figures, the swirling cloud of spirits, the fire, the all-consuming fire…

“ _For she who trusts in the Maker,_ ” she whispered, anything to get the thudding silence out of her mind, “ _fire is her water._ ” 

She sat like that for a few minutes, whispering fragments of the Chant, trying to find that peace and calm inside her that was untouched by the fear reforging her veins and mapping itself to her bones. 

Gradually, the sounds of the mountainside came back. Wind whistling over grass and wildflowers, the distant rustle of branches, the mournful hooting of an owl. The cold air reminded her of who she was, of _what_ she was. It smelled sharp and fresh, and called her home. 

Footsteps moved through the grass behind her. Her heart spasmed, but she pushed it down, once more in control of her emotions. 

She was in control. She was safe. 

Her eyes opened to find Iron Bull standing in silence a few feet away. The moonlight revealed his calm, expressionless face, waiting. 

The horns on his head made her stomach lurch, but she swallowed, took a deep breath. “Sorry,” she rasped, throat raw and burning, “didn’t mean to wake you.”

He shrugged. “I was on watch. Was it the stew?”

Roslyn snorted, moisture leaking from her eyes as her body protested. “No, I think you’re fine.”

“Good. Grimm’s the best cook we’ve ever had. Be a shame to break his streak.” He held out a canteen. 

“Wine or water?” she asked, not knowing entirely which she would prefer. 

He chuckled. “Water, but I can go get you some wine if you think that might help.”

She took a deep breath and reached up to take the canteen, meeting his gaze with gratitude. “You are wonderful.”

“Took you this long to figure that out?”

She emptied it in one long draught, wiped her hand across her lips when water leaked from them and spread down her neck.

Just like the black liquid had spilled down the priestess’s lips.

She clenched her hand into a fist as her fingers trembled, handed the canteen back. “Thanks.”

He hummed, but didn’t leave, watching her with that steady, patient gaze. 

“It was just a bad dream, Bull,” she murmured, voice shaking and ruining whatever nonchalance she had tried to convey. 

“Do your bad dreams usually make you go into a screaming fit and throw up?”

She clasped her hands in her lap to stop them from shaking. “They used to. Not for a while, though.”

That was a lie. 

Demons had come to her for years, frightened her— _fuck_ , the wolf had scared her from her sleep _once_. But never the dream itself. 

And whatever _that_ was, she was growing more and more certain that it wasn’t a dream. She wasn’t experiencing someone else’s memory, or if she was, it wasn’t anything like what she did on most nights. It wasn’t what Solas had described when he talked about experiencing the dreams and memories of the dead through the spirits that replayed them to better understand the physical world. 

That numbness, that oppressive inability to do _anything_ —she hadn’t realized it before, but now that she knew what she was, and what she could affect in the Fade, that suffocation was absolute. 

“You need to talk about—,” Iron Bull started to ask mildly.

“No,” she said before he could finish, the thought of reliving that horror making her insides crawl. “I—I don’t mean to sound harsh, but you wouldn’t understand.”

He frowned, sighed. “You’d be surprised.”

She smiled weakly, and shook her head. “ _I_  don’t even understand. It’s not anything against you, I swear.”

“You don’t need to make me feel better, boss,” he said, sounding a bit disgruntled, “but you’re not the only one to have night terrors.”

“Night terrors are one thing,” she murmured, unclasping her hands to flip her left palm up. In the darkness, the anchor thrummed and flickered. The wolf huffed and curled more closely around her mind, as if settling in to sleep, and the mark leapt up in a dance of sparks. “Unfortunately for me, I’ve moved beyond bad dreams. I’m in a whole other realm of things that go bump in the night now.”

He shifted in discomfort, and she laughed at the scowl that crossed his face. 

“Big bad Iron Bull, afraid of a few green fireflies.”

“You’re doing that on purpose to freak me out.”

She grinned, realizing with relief that her chest didn’t hurt quite so much anymore. That gentle heat was beginning to come back, making her feel whole again. “Maybe.”

“Anybody ever tell you you’re kind of an asshole?”

“I _can_ fire you, you know.”

He laughed, and knelt down in front of her. “I’ll drop it if you want, but take it from me, it’s better to head this shit off at the beginning.” His voice hardened. “It’s not like your life is going to get easier anytime soon.”

Her brow lifted as affection swelled inside her for the big sweetheart. “Worried about me, Bull?”

“Always,” he muttered, without a hint of a tease. “You are officially the worst charge I’ve ever been hired to protect.”

“Is that why we hired you? I thought it was for eye candy.”

“That comes extra.”

Her smile faded as she held his gaze, a knowing concern shining from his eye. 

She couldn’t tell him what she’d seen. She didn’t really know herself. Whatever the… _vision_ meant, it was connected to everything else. To the winged woman, to the amulet, to her own unraveling mind. 

Luckily, she’d taken the amulet off when she went to sleep that night. Having it on her now, after what she’d just seen… 

“What made you turn yourself into the re-educators, in the end?” she asked before she could stop herself, voice breaking slightly on the last. “How did you know…” She couldn’t finish. 

After the last month of progress, of feeling like she finally might be approaching some semblance of normalcy, the vision had sundered it all. She wasn’t in control of anything, not her mind, not her magic. She was playing at certainty when there was none to be had. _How_ was she supposed to save anyone when she could barely go a month without falling to pieces?

He was silent for a long time, an empty kind of loss shining in his one dark eye. A hand rubbed against his chin, and his brow furrowed as he shifted and took a seat next to her. 

The sheer mass of him was warm, a hollow comfort, as he took his time to answer. 

“Most Ben-Hassrath don’t last longer than a few years in active duty service. The shit we see—it messes with your head, makes you forget why you’re fighting in the first place.”

“And how long did you last?” she asked when he didn’t continue. 

“Eight years, three months, and… a few days, I think. I don’t remember exactly how long.”

Roslyn turned to look at him, finding a hard, distant expression on his face. “Shit.”

“Yeah,” he laughed, “well. One day this fish-seller my team was friendly with was pressured to poison my men by some Vint spies. That’s normal,” he continued when she tensed, still not looking at her. “Seheron was a fucking nightmare, and it was a quiet week when no one was trying to slip poison into your food. A few days later, the same poison was used on a group of school children connected to a rival magister, or something.”

His jaw clenched, and his voice dropped into a hard, biting growl as he continued, “What was left of my men agreed to pay the Vints back, so we dug a bit, found out it wasn’t the Vints at all, but some bleeding Tal-Vashoth that decided to kill a bunch of kids. We tracked them to a stronghold in the middle of the jungle. The last thing I remember is seeing my oldest friend take an arrow through his throat, and then nothing until the Ben-Hassrath picked me up a few days later, covered in blood with a bunch of bodies piled around me.”

Echoes of what had happened to her when her Circle fell flashed in her mind—screaming children, the door bursting open as she shot into the hallway and ripped apart an entire squad of templars with her bare hands. 

“I couldn’t stick around civilians after that,” he muttered, finally looking down at her. “I couldn’t risk letting that out where it might hurt someone innocent.”

She nodded, understanding exactly what he meant. Trying to remain present and calm during the long march to Cumberland, her Circle nothing more than a group of terrified survivors looking to someone to lead them somewhere safe—it had been some of the hardest few weeks in her life. 

Before the Inquisition, anyway.

“For what it’s worth,” he added, voice losing a bit of its dark edge, “I don’t think you’re there yet.”

“No,” she agreed, leaning back to stare up at the starry night sky. “Not yet.”

She breathed slowly, letting her chest fill and calm, the space between each breath like the space between the stars, a comforting, glittering stillness. 

“You promise to tell me if I do get there?”

He chuckled. “Would you listen?”

She wanted to smile, to tell him to go fuck himself, but a part of her wondered… 

She would, wouldn’t she?

“Yeah, boss, I’ll let you know.”

Roslyn swallowed, and nodded. “Thanks, Bull.”

“Whatever it is,” he said, softly, “you owe it to yourself to figure it out. If that’s on you, or with somebody else’s help, fine. But you should. For my peace of mind, at least.”

Her eyes closed, and she nodded. “You should get back to keeping watch,” she murmured. 

“Nah, I woke Krem up. We’re good.”

“No, you didn’t,” she said, grimacing. “Now I feel horrible.”

He shrugged. “He likes feeling useful.”

They sat in silence for another few minutes. Iron Bull at her side helped to reorder her thoughts, to ground them in something concrete. The dirt under her palms and the cold stone at her back reinforced her body. She ran her consciousness over the thread connecting her to her wolf, reminding herself over and over that it was there. That her magic was alive, and that she was in control. 

Roslyn sat there until the first light of dawn broke over her head, and the birdsong of the Frostback Mountains dislodged the last vestiges of the fearful knot in her throat. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation for the song can be found [here](https://lyricstranslate.com/en/trettanda-n%C3%A1tt-epiphany.html) <3


	27. Wake You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["To See The Light" by Mree](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5r_RFgdGy6I&index=28&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&t=0s)

Iron Bull left her to help break camp at some point, but she sat, waiting until she was sure that she had control over her emotions, over her fear. She let the vision solidify, forced herself to remember as much detail as she could, and then shoved it down deep in the back of her mind, and rejoined her party. 

The vision pulled at her when her hands stilled, or her mind wandered, grabbing her chest and holding her in a cold, iron grip, but it didn’t break her again. She wouldn’t let it.

No one said anything about her thrashing last night, though she was sure Iron Bull wasn’t the only one who had heard her. Even Isahn had curbed his usual interest. 

He watched her closely, eyes bright and curious, but he didn’t mention it as they went through a shorter version of her training regimen. Roslyn was distracted, and shattered her staff within seconds of trying to cast, her aura jumpy, too willing to expand and reassert its presence. But he didn’t push her beyond a second staff, merely offering a comment here or there. She knew he wanted to, could feel his interest like a reaching vine, but if he wasn’t going to press her, she wasn’t going to offer. 

They made quick time through the mountain pass, all of them eager to return to Skyhold, and the moment the shining dome of energy greeted her, she sighed in relief. 

The Frostbacks gleamed bright in the midday sun, the sight of them burning away the last of her fear—for now, at least. More so than the last time she’d returned, she felt the fortress answer as her aura reached out on its own, that vast, unfocused entity enveloping her, welcoming her home.

She managed a grin as she turned to see Isahn at her side, staring at the fortress with hard, disbelieving eyes as they crossed the wide bridge to the front gates. “Told you.”

An uncharacteristically disarmed expression crossed his face. “How did you… You found this place by chance?”

“Solas did.”

His expression froze. He blinked once, and then let out a bark of laughter, muttering, “ _Tash’lin harellan_. Of course he did.” Something brittle and angry flashed in his eyes, and he sighed in a deep, weary grunt. “ _Tarasyl’an Telas_ , you said?”

She nodded.

His jaw clenched and he looked back at Skyhold, a hard, knowing acceptance settling onto his face. 

Her brow arched, but she didn’t ask, knowing he’d just give her some half-truth anyway. She had more pressing matters on her mind than whatever shared history he and Solas were trying to hide. 

His mood improved as they walked under the main gate, and he said, “You tamed the fortress, _da’shyl._ Impressive. If only you could tame your staves with as much finesse.”

She held his gaze, but didn’t rise to his bait. “The barrier around the fortress is responsible for the gentler climate inside. Whatever the magic is that resides in the stone underneath, it’s powerful, and old, and not likely to be tamed by anyone, let alone me.”

“Undoubtedly. And yet,” he mused, looking around at the inner courtyard with sharp eyes, taking in every detail with his predatory gaze. 

Around them, the Chargers and her scouts filtered off into the happy chaos that jostled below the main keep. 

She caught Iron Bull’s eye once, and nodded at his unspoken question of concern. She would need to figure out a way to thank him for last night. 

_Not now, though_ , she thought with a quick scan of the crowd. It was only a matter of time before someone came to find her, and she needed to take care of something before her duties as Inquisitor pulled her out of herself. If she didn't do it now, she never would.

“I am sure Josephine, my ambassador, has found you somewhere to sleep and keep your things,” she said, noticing with unease the way people stopped and stared at Isahn with mingled fear and shock. _Maker's balls, h_ _e’s just an elf with tattoos._ “Unless you were thinking of pitching a tent outside the walls?”

He grinned, flashing his teeth. “No, I think I’ll stay inside. You were so concerned last night that I might as well take advantage of your hospitality while I have it.”

She fought to stop from smiling, amused in spite of herself. “Promise me you won’t _try_ to scare them?”

With wide, innocent eyes that gleamed like struck flint, he asked, “Do I even need to try?”

Roslyn caught sight of Patroclus approaching over his shoulder, with a familiar thatch of blonde hair and pointed ears trailing behind. Her chest warmed and she smiled fully, the gesture only a bit strained. 

“Play nice,” she murmured, as Adaleni skipped past Patroclus and made a beeline for her. “You’re about to meet someone I’m very fond of, and if you act like an ass, I _will_ make you regret it.”

He didn’t have the chance to respond before the boy raced into her open arms. 

“Hello, little tree,” she laughed, gangly limbs that were somehow even longer than the last time she’d seen him tangling themselves around her waist. His head was nearly up to her chest now. “You’ve grown, _again_. I thought I told you to stop doing that.”

“Maybe if you didn’t keep leaving for long extended periods,” he said, flushed with a wide smile on his face, “I’d stop growing.”

“Yes, but if I stayed, I wouldn’t be greeted to such lovely hugs when I return.” She mussed his hair, affection nearly making her chest burst. 

He shoved her away with a half-hearted groan, o nly to freeze as he caught sight of Isahn. 

“Adi, this is Isahn,” she said gently, knowing the boy was probably having a hard time breathing. “As you can probably tell, he’s Dalish.”

Adi’s mouth popped open, eyes wide with unbridled shock. 

She sighed, and gave Isahn a hard glance when he just grinned at the boy. 

“Adaleni knows quite a bit of elven,” she prompted, giving him a little nudge when he remained mute. 

“Do you?” Isahn sounded unconvinced, arching a brow at Adi. _"_ _Dirthas ver’elvhen seth’lin?"_

Roslyn was about to snap at the man—he couldn’t stop being an asshole for five seconds, even in front of a child?—when Adi blinked, and answered in a shaking voice, _"_ _Ma mamae ma ghilana dirthavir."_

Isahn’s expression relaxed in surprise, and a new, scrutinizing light came into his eyes. He scanned the boy, a crease forming in his brow. _"_ _Ir abelas, da’len. Dirth’loahnen._ "

Roslyn cleared her throat as Patroclus approached, the young man glancing between her and Isahn with only a little fear. He was learning, good lad.

“Well, now that you two know each other,” she said, shooting Patroclus a purposeful smile, “I think my steward will show you to your rooms.”

He blinked, red splotches rising up his neck, and nodded. “Lady Montilyet sends her apologies for not showing you yourself, M-Master Elf,” he said, managing to get nearly all the way through until Isahn turned sharp, dismissive eyes on him. 

“I’m sure your ambassador has better things to do,” he mused, looking back at Adi with growing curiosity. 

“Don’t we all,” she said, giving him a hard, pointed stare until he met her gaze. “I’ll come around later to make sure you’ve settled in.”

“Such consideration, Inquisitor.” He winked at her and inclined his head, following Patroclus after the young man agreed to meet her in a few hours to go over what she had missed in her months away that hadn’t been included in her correspondence with her advisors. 

Adi watched Isahn with wide, awestruck eyes, pulling on her hand urgently as soon as they were out of earshot. “Do you think he would let me walk with him?”

She sighed and grinned. Of course he'd want to get to know the old ass. _And what a lovely influence he'll be._  “You could always ask.” 

Whatever temporary fear had struck Adi dumb at first sight of Isahn, it had been replaced by an enthusiastic, hungry light. 

“Okay,” he murmured, and lurched off after him and Patroclus, who, bless him, looked like he was trying to make small talk with the elf. 

“See you later for dinner?” she called, feeling rather discarded, like a passed-over piece of misshapen bread. 

Adi just waved over his shoulder with a final smile, and nearly ran into Isahn's leg when he wasn’t looking. 

Roslyn watched the boy fall into step with Isahn and Patroclus, that hard emptiness rearing in the back of her mind again. The amulet in her pocket burned a stark reminder of last night against her thigh. 

She was _not_ going mad. There was a reason for the visions, a connection to the amulet, to the winged woman. 

The Inquisition was owed nothing less than her full power, and Maker damn her if she slipped now. 

Small crowds gathered as she walked through the courtyard and up to the main keep, some familiar faces even calling out to her as she went. She didn’t stop to change out of her travel clothes or disarm as she walked into the rotunda and turned immediately for the stairway toward the library and tower, trying to keep from straying back down, from wanting to see Solas. She didn’t need to think about him now, on top of everything else. 

Minaeve was bent over a large stack of notes, barely looking up as Roslyn sidestepped some of Leliana’s agents and said, “Morning, Minaeve.”

“Is it still? I thought I heard the lunch bell not an hour ago.”

“Ah—maybe. I just got in.”

“Heard that too.”

Roslyn fought a smile. “Lovely as ever to chat, Minaeve. Know where I might be able to find our favorite Tevinter pest?”

An indignant voice shot through the stacks. “ _Pest?_ I am a pestilence. A curse upon your crops. A plague upon your house. Pest— _p_ _lease._ ”

The elf blinked and said serenely, “For one who rarely stops talking, he has remarkable hearing.”

A book came flying over one of the nearest shelves to land squarely on top of Minaeve’s desk. Her blank expression shifted into one of fury and she shouted, “Stop throwing the _damn_ _books_ you useless—”

“Language, dear woman,” Dorian interrupted as he appeared and leaned against the end of a bookcase. “Hello, Inquisitor. Don’t we look _rugged_ today.”

Roslyn rolled her eyes and grabbed his arm, pulling him away from Minaeve’s murderous stare. “Just as charming as ever, I see.”

“Always, my friend. Is there a reason you’re clamped to my arm?”

Roslyn slowed when they were out of the main drag of the library, pausing once to look back at him. Her tension eased when she saw a soft smile playing on his lips, looking rather glad to see her.

“I—” She hesitated, fighting the urge to drop the whole thing. What if he didn’t believe her, or thought she was worrying for nothing? “Are you busy right now?”

His brow arched in interest, and furrowed. “For you? Never.”

_Oh, you lovely man_ , she thought with a smile, stepping back to him and kissing his cheek. “Hello.”

“Hello,” he repeated, standing awkwardly until she tugged him along in her wake. “Ah—Roslyn, while I’m never one to turn down a tryst in small, dark room, I’m not sure—”

She paused on the threshold of a study room, one she hoped was currently not occupied by any of Leliana’s people, and turned back to him with an arched brow. “You think I’m getting you alone to ravish you?”

He grinned, still watching her with something like concern. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone's been overcome by my dangerously alluring good looks.”

“You _are_ very handsome.” She opened the door and shoved him inside, happy to see it empty. Rifling through a desk, the only piece of furniture in the room apart from a small chair, she found a box of matches and a few candles. “And I am sure I would be very lucky to ravish or be ravished by you. But let’s stick a pin in that for now, shall we?”

“You're the one who kissed me and dragged me into a closet.”

Roslyn straightened as she set up the candles, pulling her hand away as Dorian sent a gentle whip of flame to light them before she could. “Show off.”

“You _would_ be very lucky, you know,” he said, a bit miffed as she shut the door behind them. 

“Are we really having this conversation right now?” she asked, her nerves getting the better of her as her fingers fumbled over the amulet in her pocket. “I’m very fond of you, Dorian, but I have no interest in ravishing anything with you. And unless I am mistaken, neither do you with me.”

He coughed, blush darkening his neck and cheeks. “Right. Well. Glad that’s cleared up.”

The room wasn’t as small as it looked on the outside, but the solitary chair and desk took up nearly half the available space. 

It struck her how ridiculous this was, pulling him away into a clandestine room to unburden her soul.

“You look like a virgin bride about to tell her betrothed that she’s pregnant with his brother’s child,” Dorian mused, a confused smile making his mustache twitch. When she said nothing, he grinned. “You’re not, are you? How scandalous.”

Her jaw clenched, and she took a deep breath as she pulled the amulet from her pocket and set it down on the desk.  “I’m ready to talk about this. If you’re still interested.”

He stared at the amulet for a moment. “You certainly are full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“If you don’t—”

“No, no, I do,” he said, voice softening as he took in her expression. “Are you all right? You're acting like you’re about to explode out of your boots, and not in the normal way.”

She scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you usually move around so much, it’s a wonder you don’t wear out the soles of your shoes every other week with all your fidgeting.”

Tension rose in her chest and she bit the inside of her lower lip, stepping back to lean against the wall next to the door. She stared at Dorian, heart hammering. _S_ _ay something_ _._

His expression hardened, and he murmured, “I haven’t seen you this nervous since Redcliffe.”

A hollow laugh broke through her lips. “That sounds about right.”

Dorian was silent as she took another breath, steeling herself.

“Just—,” she started, glancing down at the amulet, half-expecting the dull white to start shining and suck them into another rift. “Be quiet until I finish, all right? It’s going to be hard enough to explain as it is.”

And so she began, in fits and starts, to tell him everything—what she had thought was a despair demon coming to her in Calenhad’s Foothold, the vision of the Alamarri mage in Val Royeaux, her shock and fear at seeing the same crystal in Alexius’ hands, the blood mage and winged woman in Lady Shayna’s Valley, of the desire demon’s curiosity only a few months ago as he questioned her about the amulet. 

And before, of Envy chasing her through her own mind, the statue of Andraste, and the flash of revelation in Haven’s chantry, the winged woman returning and saving her on the mountain. 

When she came to the vision from last night, she faltered, and had to force herself to describe what she’d seen. 

Dorian was silent through it all, his face betraying nothing but rapt attention. 

She sagged into the wall when she finished, heart pounding fast as if she’d just sprinted physically through the story. Her throat burned with the memory of last night’s fear, and she breathed deep to banish the severe discomfort at finally voicing everything that had been pulsing in the back of her mind for the last year. 

The small room was silent for a long time, the guttering flick of candlelight the only movement between them. 

“I know I sound insane,” she murmured, waiting for his inevitable laugh, or pity.

His brow furrowed, and his expression grew pained. “Were you anyone else,” he began, slowly, “I would agree with you. However, I’m not sure you have that luxury anymore.”

Relief broke through her chest, and she exhaled, wanting to cry or laugh, or pull him into a hug. 

Dorian cleared his throat, his pained expression only growing more severe as he stared at her. “I’m not entirely sure where to start.”

“The amulet, then,” she said, standing up straight and gesturing to it. “You said once that it was a focusing stone, that Rivaini witches used them in their seances.”

“Yes, but how does that connect to…” he waved indistinctly at her, struggling for words, “all that?” He paused, and an uncertain, careful frown tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You really think this… _winged woman_ of yours is Andraste?”

“I don’t know,” she muttered. It felt so strange to hear him say it out loud, somehow both entirely impossible and real, in a way it hadn’t been until she’d told someone else. “I’ve been wracking my mind to think of some allusion to her having wings in the Chant, but… She keeps telling me to _remember_ something. What else could that be if it’s not the chunk of time I lost during the Conclave?”

He gave a weak laugh. “Would you be able to tell if it was something else? I think you would necessarily be ignorant of its loss, in any case.”

“That’s helpful. Thank you.”

“All right,” he said, taking a deep breath and crossing his arms. “We know that these…visions of yours are connected to this woman, whomever she is. You only started having them after she did her little light show for you in that ruin. So, if she is Andraste, or a spirit, or…something else, she clearly wants you to see them.” He frowned, eyes growing distant as he lapsed into thought. “You’re quite sure you aren’t possessed?”

When she didn’t answer, his eyes refocused on her with a snap. 

“It’s…complicated.”

“More complicated than you being visited by a spectral projection of a woman with wings?” A smile tugged at his mouth. “Indulge me.”

“You remember my wolf?” As she spoke, it rose, as if summoned, and rested its head on her shoulder. She felt the impression of its fur on her face, and she relaxed. “Well, it turns out you were right, in a way. It was a spirit, but I… _made_ it from the energy of the explosion at the Conclave. So it’s me, but—not. Technically, I suppose I am possessed. Which means that I can’t be possessed by something else.” _Hopefully._

She had a moment of vertigo where her mind circled back on itself, and she truly considered the sheer impossibility of her life now. That she could speak so casually about being an abomination would have been inconceivable only a year ago.

Dorian was right—she couldn’t be insane, because _insane_ had come to lose all meaning for her. Her _life_ was insane. 

His pained expression returned, and he laughed. “Of course. Why didn’t I think of that? You made it yourself. Maker’s breath.” He pulled the small chair from the desk and sat down heavily, without any of his usual extravagance. “Do you know how much people back in the Imperium would pay to study a subject like you?”

He seemed to realize his error when she remained silent, and he looked up with a grimace. “That was, perhaps, a bad choice of words.”

“At least you’re learning,” she muttered. 

“Slowly, it seems.” He sighed and straightened, glaring at the stone as if it might start spilling all of its secrets if only he could convince it. “We can rule out possession, at least.”

A tense silence fell over them both, and she could almost feel the trajectory of his thoughts.

He looked up with a slow, hesitant smile. “Well, I can think of at least one other person in history who thought she was receiving communication from an entity no one else could see or hear.”

Roslyn held his gaze as long as she could, before the cautious awe in his eyes overwhelmed her. 

She knew exactly who he meant, because she’d been fighting the same thought for the past few months. 

Andraste had received visions from a strange, unknown entity she came to know as the Maker. Visions that were inexplicable, and terrifying. Visions that had started as dreams and hallucinations, and grew to certainty. 

“I don’t know, Dorian,” she muttered, looking down, trying to keep her mind from spiraling down into that place where a little girl knelt before fragile candlelight, praying, hoping, with all her might that someone might answer. “This is…”

“Is it really so impossible to think she might be trying to speak to you?” 

He sounded so like Cassandra that she nearly broke into tears.

“Yes, it's impossible,” she whispered. “Why would she choose me? I’m a mage, and a half-elf. There’s… What possible reason could she have to choose me?”

“ _Oh_ , my dear, lovely, foolish Roslyn.” Dorian’s face creased in sympathy. “Are you forgetting that Andraste was a barbarian slave before becoming the most important woman in Thedas? And I don’t know where you’re getting this idea that she hated the elves. She worked with them, _freed_ them. Shartan was her champion, after all.”

“The Chantry—”

“The Chantry is a lot of mindless dogma,” he said firmly, voice rising in certainty. “The Chantry is a relic that should have died hundreds of years ago. And as for Andraste hating magic? Of course, she might have had a few problems with the magisters of the time.” A hard, self-deprecating smile twisted his mouth. “She probably still would. Maker knows my country has never lived up to her edicts. But my people take a different view of the woman who was supposedly able to raise seas against her enemies and thunder to her fingers. What does that sound like to you?”

She met his gaze, disbelief curbing some of the tension in her chest. “Dorian—” 

“To me,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken, rising from his chair, “it sounds as if she had powers the Chantry tried to smooth over with flowery language in the hopes that future generations wouldn’t see the flaw in their own damn doctrine.”

“You can’t seriously be suggesting that she was a mage.”

“Why not? It was a thousand years ago. Who’s to say what she was or wasn’t?” His brow arched. “Or are you telling me that no mage could possibly want to curb the excesses of his kind? Isn’t that why you spared the templars in the first place?”

Her jaw clenched and she tried to think of some way to counter what he was saying. “Fine. If—,” she stumbled over her words, unable to speak the thudding, ringing hope that chimed in her chest like the tolling of bells, “if all of this is  _her_ , what the fuck does it mean?”

“As I’ve never known a prophet before you, I have no idea.”

She scoffed, trying to find some semblance of coherence in her own echoing mind. “That’s _shit_ , Dorian.”

“Of course it is.” His hand came up and gently squeezed her shoulder. “Did you expect this to be easy?”

“I didn’t expect anything,” she managed, eyes burning with unshed tears. “I—I can’t just assume that this is Andraste. These visions—they’re _horrifying_. Or the one last night was.” 

She choked on a laugh that surged up and spilled from her lips, all her unspoken fears unraveling into her voice, pooling like serpents in her upheld, shaking hands. 

“I just figured my shit out with the wolf. I don’t know what I’ll do if—” She blinked rapidly, hating the tears that fell down her cheeks, hating the fact that she was reduced to this, again. “I don’t have the luxury of accepting ignorance and hoping it goes away. I can’t go through that again, Dorian. I _can’t_.”

This wasn’t the intervention she had wanted from her prophet all those years ago. Andraste was supposed to save her, comfort her, embrace her in calm, warm hands and lift her from a life of torment. Not throw her into the fire to fend for herself. 

It didn’t matter if she was strong enough or not—no one should have to bear this burden, after everything she’d been through in her Maker-damned life, _this_ was too much. 

That frightened little girl kneeling in front of a silent, uncaring statue deserved more than _this_. 

The room rang with silence as she struggled against her own tears.

“I know,” Dorian finally murmured, stepping forward to pull her into a stiff hug. “Maker's breath, I—I’m sorry, Roslyn.”

Part of her wondered if he didn't do this often, as her tears stained his fine tunic and he shifted into their embrace bit by awkward bit. He seemed new to comforting other people. It almost made her smile. 

“I know it won’t help,” he said gently, patting her once on the back of her head, “but I think history has smoothed and refined most of what we know as Andraste’s visions. The Chant was written by people, after all. Someone had to decide what sounded best and most stirring to rally the faithful.”

“That’s downright heretical,” she managed, smiling in spite of her trembling voice.

“Of course it is. I’m the scary Tevinter mage, remember?” His grip tightened before he released her, looking vaguely uncomfortable, but like he was trying very hard not to be. “What good am I if I don’t rattle your worldview on occasion?”

She grimaced and tried to gather the vestiges of her composure. “Sorry, I—”

“Don’t apologize, you insufferable woman.” He frowned and brushed her loose hair back over her shoulders. “For what it’s worth, if anyone can figure this out, it’s you. You’re stubborn enough.”

“Thank you, I think.”

“You’re welcome.” He paused, and his voice darkened. “You forget I was there with you in that nightmare future. I saw firsthand what you’re capable of when pushed.”

Her jaw clenched, but she held his gaze. Of course he understood. Shame on her for thinking anything else. 

“Plus,” he continued, folding his arms and giving her an over-bright smile, “you’ll have me to help you. I’m very intelligent, didn’t you know?”

“And humble,” she murmured, wiping her cheeks. 

“Who else have you told about this, by the way?”

“No one.”

He blinked, a purposefully blank expression replacing his forced smile. “Really? I would have thought Solas would be the first person you’d run to with troubling dreams. He mentions the Fade occasionally—every, oh, I don't know, two, _three_ minutes, tops.”

“You’re not that oblivious,” she muttered, pulling her hair back into a knot, more to distract herself as he tried, badly, to hide his curiosity.

“I… _may_ have noticed that you two have a complicated relationship, but I would never assume—”

“And you were doing so well,” she sighed. 

“Oh, come now.” He dropped the innocent act and frowned. “Whatever lover’s spat you two are—”

Heat surged into her chest at the thought, and she forced herself to say, “We are not lovers.”

His eyes narrowed in doubt. “Could have fooled me. From the way he gets all tense and quiet every time your name is mentioned, it certainly seems like there’s something there.”

“We are not talking about this,” she said, shooting him a hard glare even as her mind piqued in interest. “I haven’t told anyone else.”

He pursed his lips, clearly not wanting to drop the subject. “Fine. Stew in your own silent suffering, but, loathe as I am to admit it, he does have more expertise than I do where the Fade is concerned.”

“Dorian,” she murmured, closing her eyes briefly to steady herself, “I barely worked up the courage to tell you.”

“Well,” he said, deflating somewhat, “I suppose I should feel honored to have your confidence.”

Her smile was small. “Yes, you should.”

“We start with the stone, then. This white opal.” His eyes hardened as he said, “And I know exactly which disgraced former mentor of mine to begin with.”

“You don’t have to.” She knew that Dorian had spent little time with Alexius since arriving at Skyhold, who was helping the mages in whatever capacity Fiona thought best suited his skills. “I can ask myself.”

“No, no,” he sighed, “you want this kept quiet, and you questioning him about it will only raise suspicion.” He splayed a hand against his chest. “I, on the other hand, raise suspicion simply by breathing, so no ground lost there.”

“Have things been bad?” she asked, noticing for the first time the slight bags under Dorian’s eyes. 

“Not any more so than usual. I love playing the pariah, but sometimes it does drain one’s energy.” His thin smile dropped, and his entire expression became grim. “Felix is ill. It’s not the first time, but…I worry.”

“Dorian, you should have said something,” she murmured, instantly guilty that she hadn’t even asked.

“Nothing’s happened. There’s no reason to coddle me yet.” He gave her a weak laugh. “He’s pulled through before. I can’t do much for him here, in any case. And besides, I think your problems call for a more immediate kind of attention.”

“That’s not true.”

“Oh, _stop_ ,” he groaned dramatically, cocking his head in exasperation, “let me be helpful for once without you stealing my thunder.”

“You’re a very good man, you know.” She met his smile with her own. Maker,but she never realized how much she missed him until she returned to Skyhold. “Terrible hugger. But a good man.”

“I give wonderful hugs,” he said, mock affront in his voice. “My hugs are renowned far and wide for their fine craftsmanship.” 

They stared at each other for a moment, the weight of what she’d put on him making the small room pulse with significance. 

“Thank you,” she murmured, brushing a bit of her lingering tears from his shoulder where there gleamed against one of his thousand buckles. “For everything.”

“Anytime, my friend.” His voice was thick, and he blinked rapidly as he drew himself up. “You can make it up to me by taking me with you the next time you leave on one of your little outings. I’m starting to worry that mad elven mage will poison my food or attempt to throw me off the balcony.”

She grinned. “Which one?”

He laughed in surprise. “ _Oh_ , that’s good. I’m going to tell Solas you think he’s mad. I’m sure that will help heat things up—”

“Dorian,” she warned, half-heartedly. 

He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Minaeve is intelligent, but she’s very touchy about her things.” 

“You could try not antagonizing her.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She shook her head, grabbing the amulet and shoving it into her pocket. Whatever it was, she wasn’t going to be wearing it again anytime soon. “Do I look like a mess?”

He arched one wry brow. “Would you like me to answer honestly?”

She shoved him to the door as he protested loudly, unable to stop her smile from pulling wide. 

The knot in her chest was still there, and the mingled fear and thudding, foolish hope thrummed inside her like a living, breathing thing, awoken by her finally speaking it aloud. But it wasn’t some nebulous phantom hanging in the back of her mind, not anymore. And to know that one other person understood it, or at least acknowledged it, was more comforting than she could have ever thought possible. 


	28. Only Honesty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Magpie" by Khushi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zyU0rIhcMQY&t=0s&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&index=29)

Dorian returned to the library, muttering something about wanting to make sure Minaeve hadn’t reorganized his research out of spite while he was gone.

Once again, Roslyn slipped down the staircase without looking into the rotunda to check if Solas was present. Her mind and composure were still too rattled to talk to him without making a fool of herself. Even if she wanted to see him. Badly.

She didn’t know why the idea of telling him any of this made her so uneasy. Dorian was right—he was the most knowledgeable about the Fade. Even if her visions weren’t happening in the Fade, or the Fade that she knew, they were connected, somehow. He would be curious to hear about them, in any case. He would be willing to help, if she asked.

But telling him she thought she was chosen by Andraste, that the prophet was sending her holy visions…

She believed in the Maker. She always had, even during her time in the Circle. She knew nothing else, no way to understand this world without falling back on her faith, however strained it was by the circumstances of her life. She was not blind to other thinking, however, and knew Solas didn’t hold the same views. She might not know what gods he prayed to, if he did, but they were not her Maker. He’d made his views on her divinity rather plain right away.

If she went to him, told him she thought she was blessed by the Maker and His Bride to save the world from Coryphea, she had no idea how he’d react.

He already thought she was ignorant. She didn’t need him to think she was fanatical as well.

Roslyn was so caught up in her own thoughts, she nearly ran into someone standing just outside the door to her rooms.

“Ah, Cassandra—,” she mumbled, jerking back when she looked up to find her imposing figure waiting. “You’re going to hurt someone with those cheekbones if you’re not careful.”

She pulled her into a hug with a mild scowl. “It is good to see you as well, Roslyn.”

Roslyn blinked, and grinned. “This is nice. And surprising.”

“Why is that?” Cassandra drew back, voice rising in frustration. “I cannot give my friend a hug when I see her? Honestly, how you insist on—”

She reached up and cupped Cassandra’s face with both hands, looking her straight on with a wide smile. So predictable. “It is nice to see you again, Cassandra. I missed you oh so much.”

Cassandra’s blush was quick, but her brow furrowed as she stared into Roslyn’s eyes. “What is wrong?”

And observant, she thought with a sigh, releasing her friend and pushing open the door to her rooms. “I’m tired.”

“I know what you look like when you’re tired. If anything you become more obstinate.”

Sure enough, Cassandra followed her up the stairs without an invitation.

Sometimes Roslyn wondered what the point of being Inquisitor was if she couldn’t just order everyone to leave her alone.

“Perhaps I am very tired. Have you forgotten I just spent two months on the road?”

“If you do not want to talk about it, you can just say—”

“Cassandra,” Roslyn said, stopping on the stairs to shoot her a steady glare, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Her conversation with Dorian was too fresh, to raw, to voice it now.

Cassandra was kind and, if she were being honest, one of the people she trusted most with this particular area of discussion. But Roslyn knew exactly how quickly the conversation would escalate if Cassandra suspected she thought she was Andraste’s Herald.

Or maybe not. Cassandra had surprised her before, but she’d had enough theoretical religious discussions to last her a good while yet. And she didn’t want to start crying again.

“All right.” Cassandra’s brow furrowed, and a flash of apprehension filtered into her eyes.

“It occurs to me that you were likely standing in front of my door for a reason,” Roslyn murmured, smiling at the strangely tight look on her face. “You didn’t actually kill Varric, did you?”

Cassandra’s jaw clenched, and she shifted her stance. “No.”

“Did you chop off his hand? Take a finger? Throw his new manuscript into a privy?”

She grimaced. “Of course not. I simply wanted to be here when you returned.”

Roslyn’s eyes narrowed at the forced nonchalance of her voice. “Well, you were here. Now I’m going to change and have a bath.”

Cassandra didn’t move, eyes flitting to the upper level of Roslyn’s rooms.

“Are you hoping to join me?”

The blush returned to Cassandra’s cheeks with a vengeance, but she squared her jaw and ushered Roslyn up the stairs. “Everything is a joke to you, isn’t it?”

“Being with you would not be a joke, Cassandra. It would be a trial in patience.”

Her disgusted sigh was enough to make Roslyn chuckle.

Her friends were the most flappable—

The thought died when she came to the top of the stairs and turned around.

On the far wall, above the balcony over her bed, was a mural.

In the center stood a tree, with the same warm, tawny-brown bark as the tree in Calenhad’s Foothold. A cluster of white flowers grouped around its base, twining into an elegant, flowing lattice that circled the tree and grew into half-crumbled walls. The tree’s branches bled into a bright, vibrant red canopy, where nestled the flaming eye and sword of the Inquisition. Around the tree and ruined tower rose snow-covered peaks and a gentle, open sky the color of softest blue.

Warmth unfurled in her chest, digging down, down deep into the dark little place she’d locked away her feelings over the past month. If Crestwood had made her walls crack and shake, nothing had changed. He was still distant, and she afraid.

_I can offer you nothing more than friendship._

“I wanted to be here when you returned,” Cassandra said, walking around her hesitantly to gauge her reaction, “because I was the one who told Solas you would not mind it. If you are to be cross, be so with me.”

She blinked, finding it hard to string a coherent thought together in the face of the mural staring down at her, a vibrant, brilliant sign that ripped all her careful excuses and justifications to shreds.

“He asked you—,” she started, swallowing the hitch in her voice when she finally managed to speak. “He asked if you thought I would like it?”

“You are notoriously difficult to predict. Half the time I’m not sure whether you’ll laugh or shout at me. It all adds to your charm, I suppose, but can you blame him for getting a second opinion?”

He put the tree in. _And Andraste’s Grace._

Her eyes burned and she blinked rapidly, unable to stop her mind from racing through every interaction, reworking their meanings in the light of this…

It might be just a mural. He might have done it as a friend. He was kind enough to do something like this for a friend.

But his words in the Deep Roads whispered down her spine and made her stomach tense with certainty.

“Roslyn, I’m sorry if—,” Cassandra said, voice dropping in her hesitation. “I overstepped.”

That pulled Roslyn back just enough to look away from the mural. “What?” she said, loudly, her voice breaking.

Cassandra’s eyes were wide. “Does…the mural upset you?”

Roslyn’s laugh was a sharp, surprised thing. “Does it—Maker’s balls, Cassandra. Of course it doesn’t upset me.”

If anything, that only seemed to make her more confused. “You’re crying.”

“I know,” Roslyn managed, choked laughter bubbling out of her mouth.

She shook her head, gaze drawn back to the mural like a magnet.

On one hand, she could count the number of gifts she’d been given in her life—her first sword from the old elven stable-master, Aylen, a bracelet from Jonas which had been lost when her tower fell, her coat from Leliana, hair oil from Vivienne.

And now this mural. From Solas.

“It’s lovely,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

“You’ll find I did nothing except advise a friend. Correctly, it seems.”

She hummed a little laugh, fumbled for Cassandra’s hand and squeezed.

Maker, she felt like was about to lift off the floor and spiral into the mountain air outside her open windows. Whoever this person was, she was a far cry from the hard, angry thing that tumbled out of the Fade almost one year ago.

Cassandra cleared her throat, watching Roslyn with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Did… something happen between you two in Crestwood?”

Yes. No.

Her thoughts were a jumble of frenetic emotions, flashing from one to another like a cloud of over-excited sparks. The wolf watched her with a wary eye, but it rumbled in surprise when she sent it a wave of half-formed thrill.

“Not in the way you think,” she managed, walking forward so the balcony hid the mural’s view. She unbelted her sword and shrugged out of her jacket, setting them both on her desk.

“He seems happier, more relaxed,” Cassandra murmured, keeping some distance between them as Roslyn sat at the foot of her bed and took off her boots.

Her fingers shook as she undid her laces, biting her lip to stop from smiling like an idiot.

“You seem…” Cassandra trailed off, hands folding together as she watched Roslyn.

“Unhinged, I know.”

She shook her head. “Excited. Afraid, perhaps. Though I can’t understand why.”

Roslyn set her boots aside and braced her palms on her knees.

Cassandra sighed. “I know. You don’t wish to discuss it. But you should know he cares for you. Deeply.”

Roslyn kept her eyes on the floor, sparks dancing up her spine and filling her chest so full she might burst. “Did he tell you that?”

“No. I said he was happy, not that he’d become a different person.”

She snorted and wiped her face. _I must look horrendous after all this crying._

“I am not so blind that I cannot see where his heart lies. And the way he speaks of you…” Cassandra cleared her throat, a wistful longing in her eyes. “It is very romantic.”

“It’s not. Really.”

“Isn’t it? I know you’ve had your difficulties in the past, but…” She walked forward and sat on the bed next to Roslyn. “If you ask me, whatever his reasons for pushing you away before, they have changed. And by your reaction, you clearly carry feelings for him still. Matters of the heart are complicated, yes, but adversity strengthens relationships. Love must be forged through a crucible of effort for it to shine bright. And you must try, Roslyn. You deserve happiness. You both do.”

Roslyn stared at her, smile slowly spreading across her lips. “Did you memorize that little speech?”

Cassandra’s ardent expression fell. “I—might have thought about it. I expected you to come to your rooms sooner after you arrived.”

She pressed a hand to her mouth, fighting a rush of affection. “You’ve been waiting for me since I got back to Skyhold over an hour ago?”

“I wanted to be here—”

“I know.” She nudged Cassandra’s shoulder with hers. “I don’t deserve you as a friend, Cassandra. I really don’t.”

“Stop that.” Cassandra shot her a frustrated look. “Consider my advice, at least?”

“I will,” she murmured as Cassandra rose and made for the stairs.

“And if you do decide you need to discuss whatever is truly bothering you, I am ready to listen.” She gave her a firm, searching look before she left, as if her seeker abilities might allow her to read her mind.

Roslyn fell back against the bed when she heard the door at the base of her stairs click shut.

Solas had painted her a mural.

Heat sparked and jumped in her chest. She wanted to jump off the balcony, to let her aura rise and explode from her in midair. This violent, wonderful, racing heart of hers wanted to scream or sing or do something other than lie in her bed and think about the fact that he’d painted her a mural.

She waited for the fall as she stared up at her ceiling, for the quieter, cautious voice that kept her safe to argue against running down to the rotunda right then, throwing him to the ground, and kissing him senseless.

But it didn’t come. Her imagination was left to run wild through the unexplored halls of her mind.

In reality, this changed nothing until she spoke to him, until she figured out what this meant, what he meant by it, but—Maker, she didn’t fucking care.

This had to mean something more than friendship.

Like a dam exploding, every forbidden fantasy she’d had of him over the past year came tumbling out, planting roots and seeds, and growing vibrant inside her heart.

“I’m a stupid fool,” she murmured, groaning, and flipped over to press her face into her bed.

The wolf prodded at her, perplexed at the fireworks going off inside her chest.

“A hopeless, idiotic, lovesick—”

Through her flurry of emotion, she paused, realizing what she’d just said out loud.

_Oh. Shit._

She knew her feelings ran deeper than they should have, even back in Haven, when he’d pressed her back into a wall and curled his aura inside her so thoroughly she’d nearly come with his name on her tongue and his hand digging into her thigh.

But love…

She sat up abruptly and threw off her clothes, not looking at the mural and ignoring the wolf’s continued amusement at her leaping heart.

Patroclus was due soon, and she still smelled of sweat and dirt and horse from the road. She hadn’t had a real bath in two months. She could figure this out later. Presumably when she was clean and not fresh off a conversation about the fact that she may or may not be receiving visions from bleeding Andraste.

A hot bath and some food would give her solid ground to stand on.

Her steward, bless him, was obnoxiously punctual, and she only had a half-hour to bathe and dress, during which time she tried very, very hard not to think about Solas, about him in her room, painting, his long, graceful fingers stroking back and forth across the wall—

She tried, and failed. And failed again.

Still flushed and panting when Patroclus knocked on her door, she had to tumble out of the bath and scramble for clothes.

For the next three hours, she went over her correspondence, heard updates on the construction of the fortress and new acquisitions, visited with her advisors and generally performed her duties as Inquisitor with remarkable focus. She signed off on mission assignments and decor and helped pick out a greeting card for the Archon himself, who had apparently sent a gift, or something, while she was away. All the while keeping her mind in the present and on-task.

And at the end, when Josephine suggested they take supper together to discuss a matter of succession in some Orlesian duchy on the other side of Lake Celestine, Roslyn backed out gently, and made for the rotunda.

She didn’t know what she would say to him, if it was better to get him alone and ask directly, or be more subtle about it and come at it sideways—as if she were developing a battle plan for asking the man she fancied what his intentions with her were. Cullen would be so proud, she thought, nodding absently to a few people in the main hall.

Better to come right out with it. Maker knew, she was about as subtle as a battle-axe.

She turned into the rotunda, caught sight of Solas standing at his desk, sleeves rolled up and bent over something she couldn’t see, felt her heart leap into her throat—

And froze as Varric’s voice echoed through the main hall. “Red! Just the woman I was hoping to catch.”

In that moment, she understood acutely Cassandra’s urge to throttle the damn dwarf.

She stopped and plastered a smile onto her face, shoving down the undeserved frustration as Varric walked up to her with a wide grin. “Were you? Would you like me to start running away, make the chase more enjoyable?”

He chuckled. “Nah. I never understood the thrill of the hunt. I much prefer to let my quarry come to me.”

“Is that why you’re single?”

“You wound me, madam.”

“Only because I know your ego can take it.” She chanced a look sideways into the rotunda.

Only to find Solas staring at her with a small smile and bright, intent eyes.

An explosion of heat went off in the back of her mind, making it hard to breathe.

“You got any plans for dinner?”

She pulled her gaze away, the effort like trying to redirect the sun. “Hmm?”

Varric’s eyes darted to the rotunda, and a grin pulled at his mouth. “Did I head you off?”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, voice higher than she would have liked. “Are you asking me out to dinner?”

“Only if you aren’t busy.” His brow arched suggestively. “I’m getting a little game of Diamondback together. Wondered if you were interested.”

“I’m terrible at cards. I don’t think you’d want me there.”

“Are you kidding?” he laughed. “That makes it even better. Right, Chuckles?”

She turned to see Solas walking toward them—with Adaleni close on his heels.

_So, not only am I your prophet, but you seem determined to interfere with my love life as well?_ she thought darkly up, or in, or toward Andraste, wherever the fuck she was.

“Do I strike you as an easy mark, Varric?” she asked, giving Adi a wink.

“That depends on the kind of con.”

“Did I hear Diamondback?” Adi asked in excitement, bouncing up to her and turning his wide eyes on Varric. “You promised to teach me at some point.”

“Varric,” she chastised, grinning at his discomfort. “I’m gone for a few months and you’re trying to turn Adaleni into some kind of criminal?”

“It’s just a card game,” Adi said, frowning.

“Figured you’d be off with your new hero, what’s-his-name.” Varric arched a brow at her. “Interesting recruit, Red.”

“Are we talking about Isahn?” She shrugged. “He was Solas’ friend first.”

Varric looked scandalized. “Solas has friends that aren’t spirits? I don’t believe you.”

“And I have trouble believing you did not spring fully formed from the ground before Cassandra found you in Kirkwall,” Solas said with a pleasant smile. “The world is a strange place, full of unbelievable things.”

She shouldn’t stare at him. She knew that. But for the brief moment he looked at her, his eyes softening as he studied her face, a question building between them like physical sparks in the air, she didn’t care what she should, or shouldn’t do.

“I’d say something smart,” Varric said, “but I don’t want to upset Beanstalk, here.”

“Beanstalk?” she laughed, tearing her eyes from Solas to grimace in sympathy.

“He didn’t want to be called Sapling.”

“Poor little tree,” she said as she caught the boy’s deep scowl.

“I have a name, you know,” Adi muttered darkly.

“A _noble_ name, at that.” She pulled him into a backwards hug, giving him a quick peck on the top of his head. “You want to learn Diamondback? Is this a family friendly event, or will Hawke be there?”

“Ah, yeah. Maybe not tonight, kid.”

“What’s wrong with Hawke?” Adi asked, pleading.

“That would take too long to explain,” she said, grinning at Solas’s quick chuckle. “How about you promise to go to bed after a few hands?”

Adi practically vibrated against her chest as he nodded vigorously.

“I’m sure the Champion can control himself for half an hour.”

Varric didn’t look so sure, but he shrugged. “All the same to me. I grew up in a tavern, you know. I don’t get the sheltered thing.”

“Because all of us should aspire to your greatness, Varric,” Solas said with a half-smile.

“Someone’s feeling awfully cheerful tonight.” Varric stared pointedly at Solas before backing away with a sweep of his hand. “We’re starting soon, so you might want to show up before all the seats get taken.” He smiled at Roslyn. “Good to see you back, Red.”

Adi pulled her forward before she could extricate her hands.

“He was kidding about the chairs, Adi,” she laughed.

“I had not realized your lessons were finished for the day,” Solas said, brow raised.

Adi hesitated, looking from Solas to Roslyn with wide imploring eyes. “But Roslyn said—”

“Oh, no,” she cut him off, steering him back toward the rotunda and shoving him gently. “Far be it from me to stand between a man and his studies.”

Her eyes flashed to Solas, but he was smiling down at Adi.

She took advantage of his brief distraction to study him. Cassandra was right—he did look happier, more relaxed. His face held none of its customary distance, and his movements as he walked forward were lighter, less rigid.

A rush of sparks swirled in her chest, and heat rose to her cheeks. _Hopeless_.

She missed part of Adi’s pleading, but dragged her gaze away as he said, “—all day. I know how to conjure cold. I don’t need to practice anymore.”

“Four months and you’ve mastered cold magic?” She tilted her head, fighting a smile. “Impressive. Also, impossible.”

“Says the woman who can’t cast a barrier,” he muttered with a scowl.

Her brow raised as Solas said sharply, “That was unworthy of you, Adaleni.”

“No, he has a point,” she allowed, staring down at him.

He really had grown since she’d seen him last, and not simply in height. She didn’t know exactly how old he was, but he must be close to twelve or thirteen. There was a hardness creeping into his features, a hint of the man he’d become one day. A square jaw forming in his child’s face, cheeks flattening—a defiant light was present in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, in the boy who’d crawled into her sleeping roll and cried after his father was killed.

Adi met her gaze, guilt filtering into his eyes. “I didn’t—”

“You did,” she finished for him. “Tell you what, you get through my barrier with whatever you want to cast, and I’ll drop it. Solas will let you finish your lessons early for the day, and we all go play cards. Deal?” She gave Solas a pointed smile. “Sound fair?”

His eyes grew bright with curiosity. “I think such terms are far more than he deserves after that display, but you are the Inquisitor.” He inclined his head, a smile playing on his lips.

“What do you say, Adaleni?” She met his gaze, her expression blank and patient.

His brow furrowed, but he crossed his arms as the pride struck home in his eyes.

She fought a surge of knowing amusement as he crossed to Solas’ desk, where three short staves sat amidst papers in varying states of decay, some frozen, some charred, some pocked with holes.

He picked up one she guessed was made of onyx, remembering vaguely from her years in the Circle that the metal held properties conducive to cold magic, and faced her with determination.

“Aren’t you going to conjure your barrier?” he asked, with a frown.

She smiled, shrugged. “At some point, yes.”

His eyes narrowed, but he squared his shoulders, clutching the little staff out in front of him. His lips moved, and she felt his aura swell—birdsong and heat, sparks surging from a fire.

She made sure not to draw on the wolf as she layered her aura over her body, finding that place of stillness she’d cultivated with Isahn over the last month. It came more quickly than she thought it would, settling into place before Adi’s spell manifested—firm, fixed, humming like a shroud over her skin.

The cone of snow and cold air burst forth from his staff, surprisingly potent, even if she could see how undirected it was. Trying to show off, she thought with a smile, as it hit her barrier and refracted in an arc around her.

He stared at her while the last drifts of snow settled onto the floor, lips parted and brow furrowed in frustration.

“Would you like to try again?” she asked with a wide smile.

Adi gritted his teeth, and flourished his staff again. This time, a shard of ice the length of his arm erupted from the end, flying directly toward her head.

She frowned. _Really?_ she thought as it struck her barrier a few inches from her forehead, grating with a crunch as it burst apart into jagged pieces and fell to the floor at her feet.

He moved forward, preparing another spell.

“All right,” she said, throwing a tendril of force to grab his staff. It flew from his hand into hers, frost forming along its length as his spell died, before she set it down on Solas’s desk. “I think that’s enough.”

Panting, he let out a cry of frustration. “You lied. You said you couldn’t cast a barrier.”

“I couldn’t, and then I practiced.” She walked forward until she was only a few feet away, grabbing his chin when he looked down with a heavy scowl. “What exactly were you trying to do with that shard? If I hadn’t held my barrier, you might have killed me.”

Adi’s scowl fell and he blinked, looked up at her. “Roslyn, I’m sorry.”

“I know. I also know what it’s like to think you know what you’re doing, when you don’t.” She released his chin, smoothed back his hair, which was getting long around his ears, just like the rest of him. “Word of advice?” She smiled. “Don’t pick a fight with someone you know is stronger than you. Not unless you’re prepared to get hurt.”

Adi stared at her, guilt swimming in his warm brown eyes. “Sorry.”

“ _Tel’abelas, da’modhen._ ” She winked at his stunned expression. “I know lots of things now.”

His hesitant smile died when his eyes flicked to Solas. “Right. Well. I guess I can’t go to the tavern.”

Roslyn considered him, meeting Solas’s stern gaze with an arched brow.

“Clean up your things. This was lesson enough for today,” Solas said, eyes narrowing at Roslyn’s pointed smile. “And I think you owe the Inquisitor more than an apology.”

“Hurry up,” she said when Adi sent her a questioning look. “I’m not going to wait long.”

It took him all of three seconds to understand, and then he was giving her a fierce hug and scrambling to gather handfuls of his things from Solas’s desk.

“You are too easy on him,” Solas murmured when Adi had hurried up the staircase to one of the storage closets in the tower above them.

“Probably,” she agreed, leaning her hip against his desk as he circled behind it to gather his own work. “I’m sympathetic to little shits who think they have something to prove.”

He grinned, met her gaze. “Out of the goodness of your heart, presumably.”

“Of course.” She drank in his face, letting her eyes wander without thought. Maker, it had only been a month, but she’d forgotten how handsome he was.

“Your barrier was impressive. I told you you only lacked practice.”

She laughed. “And patience, if I remember correctly. I certainly found one.”

He held her gaze, but there was something forced about the pleasantry in his voice as he said, “Your month training with Isahn bore fruit.”

“Don’t tell him that. He’ll never let me live it down.”

Solas’s mouth twitched, but his eyes were intent, wary.

“He didn’t gave away any of your secrets,” she murmured, leaning forward with a small smile, noticing the tension that ran through his shoulders. “And I know no more about him now than I did when we left Crestwood.” She watched him relax, a line forming in his brow—guilt, or something darker, coloring his gaze. “I understand why he thought you might kill him, though. He’s…interesting.”

Solas inclined his head. “He is, indeed.”

Her left hand fingered some of the books on the desk, something to distract from the growing tension between them. Body thrumming with heat and excitement, apprehension filtering into the back of her mind, she said, “You’re welcome to join us in the tavern.”

“I am not sure that sentiment is shared by anyone else.” At her frown, he continued with a self-satisfied smile, “In my attempts to win over your Grey Warden, I might have miscalculated.”

Her eyes focused on his mouth, twisting up confidently. “Oh?”

“Warden Rainier taught me this game you will be playing last week. I proved to be a quick study, and I think he would rather I not attend any further gatherings for fear of losing more coin, or clothes. You’ll notice Varric did not extend the invitation to me.”

Her brow arched. “You just have to be good at everything, don’t you?”

“On the contrary, there are many things I have yet to master,” he murmured, tease dancing along his lips.

“I’d be interested in putting that to the test some day.”

His gaze sharped at the tone of her voice, a careful focus gathering in the corners of his mouth. “Would you?”

She nodded slowly, holding his gaze.

He blinked. “That would be—well.”

She smiled, sucked her lower lip between her teeth, noting happily that his eyes followed the movement. “I assume I get to invite anyone I want to clandestine tavern card games. One of the perks of being Inquisitor, surely.” A beat of silence stretched between them, Solas’s eyes raking slowly back up her face to hold in what he found in her eyes. “I want you to come.”

His expression tightened carefully, but he didn’t retreat, voice low, measured. “Did you miss my company so much that you would risk your other companions’ goodwill?”

“Am I allowed to say yes?” she murmured, a pleasant, buoyant exhilaration flooding her voice, loosening her tongue. “Because if it takes you more convincing, I’m willing to start getting creative.”

His brow raised, a disarmed, lovely surprise catching in his gaze. When he spoke, his voice trailed down her spine in an echo of his aura, and she had to fight not to shift her stance. “Is that supposed to deter me?”

“It usually would.”

He exhaled in a laugh, and she had to fight another wide smile.

“I won’t complain if it doesn’t,” she continued, shifting a bit closer to him. Her heart hammered in her throat, urging her to lean forward, to shove him over the edge with her, caution be damned.

He painted her a mural.

“Who am I to refuse the Inquisitor?” he murmured.

There was a wariness in his eyes, the same fear and held-back question he’d had in the Fade in Crestwood, a caged, suppressed expression of hope. She had pulled back then, taking his hesitation for aversion, not wanting to press overmuch, harboring her own ragged fears.

Which were still present. She couldn’t deny that. Staring at him dragged up memories of a snow-covered village, silent and broken as he shoved her away, and the cold, dull self-loathing that came after. The echo of that pain pulsed in her chest, but alongside it now rang a longing, a piercing, aching longing, to voice what she’d shoved down inside her for nearly a year.

Maybe it was the day she’d had, the unearthing of other, less pleasant truths, but her justifications for keeping him at arm’s length didn’t hold up anymore.

He opened his mouth to speak, eyes holding hers.

Quick footfalls pounded down the stairs at her back, and he stepped away, withdrawing just enough to look down at his hands.

She relaxed, smiling as Adi ran toward them.

“I’m ready,” he called, clothes disheveled and a wide grin stretched across his face.

Riding her buoyant courage, she curled her hand around Solas’s upper arm. He tensed, muscles jumping under her hand, but he didn’t pull away. She waited until he met her gaze, surprise and the growing realization of her intention flashing in his eyes. “I’ll save you a seat.”

“Are you coming, Solas?” Adi asked, entirely oblivious to the electric current running through the air between them.

“He is,” she answered before he could speak, straightening from the table and giving his arm a soft, purposeful squeeze, savoring the way he flexed unconsciously under her grip.

Really, he had no right to have such lovely fucking arms.

She pulled her hand and gaze away slowly, savoring that spark catching in his eyes.

Fighting the heat that rose up her cheeks as she felt his stare follow her, she steered Adaleni toward the hall and called, “Hurry up, or I might have to come back and drag you down myself.”

Before she left, she turned, gave him a pointed wink, and took the image of his incredulity with her to the tavern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elven**  
>  _Tel’abelas, da’modhen._ \- Don't be sorry, little scholar/teacher (term of endearment for someone precocious).


	29. Bring Yesterday Back Around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["About You Now" by Meadowlark](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IQBROav8GY8&t=0s&index=30&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S)

“And that is how I single-handedly took down an entire nest of wyverns—roaring drunk and without pants.”

The table erupted into laughter as Roslyn grinned, watching Hawke lean back and open his arms wide to welcome the praise.

“How did you lose your pants, again?” she asked, eyeing Varric’s diplomatically neutral expression.

“They were—” He mimed placing his hands over his ears and looked purposefully at Adaleni where he sat beside Roslyn. “ _Earmuffs_.”

Adi scowled and did no such thing, squirming when Roslyn placed her own hands over his ears.

“They were seduced off me by a _fiendish_ Qunari spy.”

“I can read your lips, you know,” Adi said and Roslyn snorted.

Varric’s gaze cut to his friend. “She did not seduce you.”

“Varric,” Hawke pressed a hand to his chest in horror, “there are _children_ present.”

“You sure it wasn’t the other way round, brother?” Bethany asked serenely, sipping from her tankard as Varric laughed.

“Are you implying I seduced my own pants off, sister dear?”

Rainier shot Hawke a dry, weary look from across the table. “You seem like the type.”

“You know,” Hawke lamented, “I used to be feared, respected, _admired_ —”

Bethany snorted into her cup, shooting ale around her in a halo.

Roslyn was really starting to like the woman. She seemed more relaxed than she had in Crestwood, if a bit removed, hardened. No word had come in yet from Warden Aeducan, and both she and Rainier had strained edges to their smiles.

Varric smiled sympathetically at his friend and patted his arm. “It doesn’t help that most of Skyhold has seen your bare ass. Getting thrown out into the courtyard without your clothes doesn’t do wonders for a man’s reputation.” He frowned at Adi. “I meant rear-end.”

“I know what ‘ass’ means,” Adi mumbled, nursing his well watered-down cider. “I’m not a child.”

Roslyn reached for her cup, sitting amongst the wreckage of cards and scattered coins spread out across the table, their game momentarily abandoned to listen to Hawke’s story. “Yes, you’re very mature.”

“You better watch your tavern wenches, milady,” Rainier said with a good-natured laugh, “or they might up and quit on you over Hawke’s botched attempts at courting.”

“Give me another week and I’ll have all of Skyhold madly in love with me.” Hawke winked at Rainier. “You too, you rugged, handsome, bear of a man.”

Rainier coughed in discomfort, but did his best to take the flirt in stride. “I am a married man, Hawke.”

Hawke wagged his eyebrows. “I can share.”

“Don’t worry,” Roslyn laughed over Rainier’s sour expression, “Bull will more than make up for Hawke’s follies.”

Hawke scowled, but nodded in reluctant agreement.

“He is rather charming, isn’t he?” Bethany said, a dream-like quality to her voice. “Ben-Hassrath are usually more…strict. Well. Sometimes.”

“ _No_ ,” both Hawke and Varric said at the same time.

Bethany waved her hand in dismissal, a steady flush spreading up her neck. “I’m just saying that he’s nice. Nicer than the pair of you.”

Roslyn leaned forward, pulling the conversation away from the growing tension in Hawke’s expression—latent brotherly concern rearing its head. “You didn’t actually throw Duke Prosper over a cliff, did you?”

Hawke arched his brow. “Yes, I bloody well did.”

“He tripped the wyvern,” Varric corrected, “which stumbled off the cliff, taking Duke Prosper with him.”

“Details,” Hawke scoffed.

“I met his son a few months ago.” Roslyn finished her ale, a pleasant warmth pooling in her chest. “Hope he doesn’t hold a grudge, or you _might_ become a liability, Hawke.”

She grinned as the conversation continued, eyes drifting to the door of the tavern.

The music was soft tonight, Maryden playing something muted and gentle, her voice threading through the nearly empty room. It wasn’t late, but the usual patrons were unaccustomed to her joining them in their nightly revels, and they had cleared out quickly once they recognized her.

She knew why, and it didn’t hurt the same way it had in the beginning, newly granted the title of Inquisitor and somehow feeling even more of an oddity in everyone’s eyes as they parted for her and made themselves scarce. She was their leader, and like it or not, there would always be some separation between her and the people she’d sworn to protect.

If they needed to put her on a pedestal to feel safer, she’d take it. Begrudgingly.

Hawke, Varric, and Bethany had already started a game by the time Roslyn and Adi arrived an hour earlier. Rainier stopped by three hands in, hesitantly sitting down after Bethany turned her infectious smile on the old man.

To her surprise, Hawke had mended that particular bridge easily, conversing with the man now as if nothing had happened between them in Crestwood. In fact, tavern wenches aside, he seemed to be getting along with just about everyone these days. He was talking to his sister, apologizing to Cassandra. He’d even, apparently, done his best _not_ to interact with Cullen, which was about as much as she could hope for, all things considered. No, he seemed a different man entirely. Still ridiculous, and a horrible flirt, but he wasn’t picking fights. She’d give him another month to be sure, but if his good behavior held, she might actually consider keeping him around.

Another four games went by without any sign of Solas, and she had to force herself not to keep looking at the tavern entrance. Disappointment welled in the back of her mind, and she fought the growing feeling of idiocy.

Had she not been clear, or was he just not interested? He’d fucking seemed interested. He always _seemed_ interested, damn him.

But if it wasn’t enough, then it wasn’t enough. She’d never been the type to chase before, had never needed to, if she were being honest, and it rankled her pride to think she was hanging so much on him.

He liked her. He had to. Why else would he have painted the damn mural?

With everything that had gone mad in her life, this was the last thing she needed to focus on.

Why couldn’t he—

“—right, Red?”

She looked up from her cards, her hand just as dismal as the last, and the one before that.

Varric had a knowing gleam in his eye that told her he knew exactly why she was so distracted, but he had the grace not to comment on it. “Adaleni should be getting to bed, don’t you think?”

She smiled as Adi started to protest. “Oh, come on, you’ve stayed much longer than I should have let you.”

Bethany rose, cheeks flushed from drink, but smiling. “I’ll walk you up, hm? I think it’s time I get to bed too.”

The boy didn’t argue, but he gave Roslyn a half-hearted hug as he followed Bethany out.

“When did he turn into a sullen teenager?” she asked when they were both gone, throwing her cards on the table with a scowl. “And I told you I’d be terrible at this.”

“Maybe it rubbed off from you,” Varric murmured with a sly smile, pulling the collection of coins and pieces of dented mental that Hawke had started subbing in as loaners for money he didn’t actually have. “Can’t imagine you were an easy teenager to handle.”

“I’m serious,” she continued, shaking her head as Rainier started to deal another hand, “he used to be so sweet.”

“Kid’s been getting quieter, more sullen. He only really talks to Solas and Dorian now.” Varric’s expression tightened. “And only about magic. Mostly.”

“What’s wrong with tree-boy?” Hawke asked over a belch.

“Lad’s growing up in a war zone,” Rainier said with a sad frown. “Bound to make him a bit odd.”

Roslyn stared down at the table, and couldn’t help the guilt that curled up her throat.

“He’s the one that saw his dad die in front of him, right?”

She met Hawke’s gaze, nodded. “During the Battle at Haven. It’s what made his magic surface.”

His face hardened, levity fading and replaced with a knowing sympathy. “Ah, well you can’t blame him. That’s the problem with us mages who come into our power in the face of death. It starts to warp your sense of identity, make you feel like you’re something you’re not.”

Her brow furrowed. She’d never thought to ask when Hawke’s magic had surfaced.

“I broke while trying to protect my idiot brother from a group of bandits he was stupid enough to think he could scare out of town on his own.” He shrugged, tone casual. “Snapped one of them in half when they stuck a knife in his stomach. Burned the rest in a matter of seconds. That was a fun conversation to come home to, believe me.”

A grim kind of humor pulled at her mouth. “I blasted half my sister’s face off after five years of abuse.” She turned her head and pulled her hair back, indicating the scars on the backs of her ears. Oddly, she didn’t feel the normal rush of embarrassment, only an echo of the pain she’d once endured. “She liked to remind me of my heritage when she was bored.”

His entire expression flattened, anger curling his lips. “She still alive?”

“Unfortunately.”

Hawke’s eyes narrowed. “You might just be the most tightly wound person I’ve ever met, Inquisitor. You should have killed her and been done with it.”

She held his gaze, her humor slipping as her memory dipped back into dark hallways full of screaming children, to a fortress hundreds of miles away and a demon’s whispering promise. “I have my reasons.”

“That, I’m starting to grasp.” Silence stretched across the table as they considered each other, and Roslyn felt her expression soften at the understanding in his eyes.

“We all have our ghosts,” Rainier murmured, staring into his mug, gaze distant and hard.

She found herself wondering what he meant. There was, of course, the old rumor about the Grey Wardens, that they were made up of criminals and outcasts. True, some nobles were drawn to the heroism and prestige, but most didn’t sign their lives away to that kind of sacrifice without a reason.

“Well,” Varric coughed, “this is a lovely conversation we’ve wandered into.”

“You’re the one who sent the kid away,” Hawke said with a wry smile.

Roslyn stretched as her eyes grew heavy with fatigue. It wasn’t late, but she hadn’t actually gotten any sleep last night. And if she knew Josephine, she had a pile of paperwork and more lessons on court intrigue tomorrow.

“I think I’ve lost enough money for the night,” she sighed, pushing herself to her feet.

Varric gave her a sympathetic smile, eyes glancing toward the tavern door, and its obvious lack of a certain erstwhile elf. “Sorry it didn’t, ah, live up to your expectations.”

She arched a brow at Varric’s concern. Maker, was she so obvious? “It’s not _your_ fault. Maybe my expectations are too high.”

“They’re not,” Varric muttered, with an actual frown. “They’re just…being stupid.”

Was everyone in Skyhold aware of her doomed love life?

“I’ve lost you both.” Hawke said, turning a wide, suggestive smile on her. “But I’m always here to cheer you up, Inquisitor. If ever you have need—”

Not _everyone_ , then. “Goodnight to you too, Hawke.”

Rainier grinned, rising with her. “Let me walk you out, my lady. Tethras has enough of my money, I think.”

They left Hawke and Varric to their own devices, with only a final warning that if Hawke offended Flissa, he could find himself another holy crusade to join.

“Thank you, by the way,” Rainier said as they walked out into the courtyard, the night stars winking down at them from a clear, crystalline sky.

“You’re welcome.” She studied him out of the corner of her eye. “For what, exactly?”

He chuckled, the silverite griffin on his chest catching the torchlight as they walked up to the upper courtyard. “For the Champion’s rather obvious attempts to befriend me. I know it was you who scolded him. And the elf.”

She forced a thin smile onto her face. “I’m not sure you should be thanking me for that. Hawke and Solas are good men, even if they aren’t good at keeping their opinions to themselves.”

“Of course,” he inclined his head. “I meant nothing else. Only that I’m grateful for your trust.”

They walked in silence for a time, Roslyn unsure of exactly how to respond to him. He seemed a good man, and wholly devoted to his order. She had no reason to distrust him or the Wardens, and Maker knew she hoped they would see reason soon enough. If they could find them one of these days.

“Heard what you did for the templars and mages,” he murmured as they walked into the main keep. “Not many would have offered them clemency, let alone a place in your Inquisition. It’s—very admirable, my lady.”

She tilted her head, trying not to let her discomfort show. “These are desperate times. We can’t let old blood stop us from working together.”

“Right,” he swallowed, looking away awkwardly. “I just meant that I’m proud to be here, working with you.”

She smiled despite her own discomfort. “I appreciate that, Warden Rainier.”

“Just Thom, my lady, please.”

He bowed slightly, and left her in front of the door to her rooms, watching him go with a furrowed brow.

_That warden might be the most earnest man I’ve ever met,_ she thought to her wolf, curled up in the back of her mind.

It huffed, entirely disinterested with the oddities of her growing circle of misfits and warriors.

She turned, an absent smile on her lips, and opened the door to her rooms.

Only to hesitate at the soft sound of footfalls.

It wasn’t his aura she felt, and she didn’t smell him, exactly, but there was something about the space between them that tensed as Solas walked toward her. Another, hidden sense that pulled on her mind like a magnet disrupting the air, or a lodestone attuning to its opposite.

Her hand tightened over the handle of her door as she murmured, “I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me.”

A pause. “I do not think that would be possible.”

She closed her eyes, fought the urge to sag against the door. _That_. It was shit like _that_ that made her feel like she was participating in some dance with a partner who kept changing the steps.

“Did you get wrapped up in your studies?” she asked, still not turning to look at him. “Magical examination of plants or something? I struggle to think what would be so exciting, but,” she shrugged, keeping her voice light, “I’ve never been much for books and learning. No, I prefer drinking like the—”

“Roslyn,” he cut her off, moving closer, that damn voice of his making sparks fly down her spine.

_Unfair_. She sucked her lower lip between her teeth, cocked her head. “Oh, I’m _Roslyn_ now, am I? I thought it was the _Inquisitor_ who invited you to a game of cards you chose not to attend. Although if that was the case, technically I should reprimand you for treason. Or misbehaving, or something. But you’ll forgive me if it’s hard to keep track of who, exactly, I am to you when you switch up my roles so often.” She swirled a finger around the door handle, braced her shoulder against the frame. “Herald, Inquisitor—so many names, it can make a girl downright confused.”

She looked at him then, meeting his gaze with a pointed smile.

He said nothing, eyes taking her in slowly, warily.

_This, then_ , she thought as she looked down, sighed. She’d had one ale too many to deal with his distance and formality tonight. “It’s been a long day—”

“I was…” He moved forward, voice low, hesitant. “Do you have a moment?”

She fought to keep her expression clear, to hold his gaze as the space between them closed. “A moment for what?”

“I wanted to speak with you. Alone,” he added at her arched brow. “I did not want to pull you from your friends.”

“I thought I made it pretty clear whose company I wanted to keep tonight, Solas.”

She waited, unmoving until the moment grew taut, until the corner of his mouth twitched, and his eyes danced, still wary, but catching her challenge, holding it.

But she was not as patient as he was, to her immense frustration. She could only stare at him for so long, the scant foot between them making it hard to remember why she hadn’t just pulled him into her rooms already, before she conceded defeat.

The door clicked softly as she opened it, pushed it back with her body. “Come in, then.”

Self-satisfaction flickered in his eyes, and she turned away before she could let it kindle the heat rising in her chest, up her neck and cheeks. “Thirsty?”

“No, thank you.”

Another click of the door as he shut it behind him. She nearly snapped the handle of her wine glass as she poured herself a distraction.

She felt him walk behind her, throw a small handful of flame into the fireplace, and grinned. As if lighting a fire down here, in her receiving rooms rather than the large bedroom above, changed anything about the tension flowing around them both like strands of electricity.

“You had a tiring day?”

She turned and slid back to sit on the table as she met his gaze. He stood by the fireplace with his hands folded behind his back. She cocked a brow at him, crossed her legs. “How long are we going to dance around each other until we get to whatever it is you really want to talk about?”

A quick smile crossed his lips before he re-schooled his features.

“Only,” she continued, “this is a rather intimate setting for questions about my welfare.”

“Would you prefer I ask you in the company of others?” He mirrored her raised brow. “I had come to suspect you disliked public displays of concern.”

“Because I like private ones so much more?”

“In my experience, it depends on a number of factors.”

“In your experience,” she repeated, fighting a smile with a sip of wine. Perhaps not the best choice of distraction, as it only added to the pleasant heat curling at the base of her spine, humming in her veins. “Am I so easily predicted?”

“Not easily,” he murmured at once, hesitation creasing his brow. He seemed to steel himself, gauging her reaction. “I realize it might have been presumptuous to—”

“I love it,” she said before he could start qualifying himself, before he could turn his gift into something mundane, and empty. “It’s beautiful.”

His expression went still. A soft smile pulled at his lips, and there was disbelief in the tilt of his head.

“Maker,” she laughed, “how did you think I would react?”

She sat perched at the edge of the table, staring into his dark eyes, tracing the outline of his face cast in flickering shadow by the flames at his back. That thread between them rose and swirled against her aura, as if it were a physical thing she might twine around her fingers, pull to bring him closer, to shake him out of whatever hesitation was making him stand on the opposite side of the room.

“I know this place can seem overwhelming,” he murmured, voice tight with emotion, in a way he didn’t usually let himself show. “I wanted to give you something to remind you… To remind you that it is yours. This fortress…is yours. You should feel at home here. I thought it might help.”

The words wrapped around her, made her body feel light and warm, made her aura rise and spark.

How he’d gotten to the very core of her discomfort so quickly, she didn’t know, and she didn’t care.

“Thank you,” she managed, body practically humming in her attempts to keep herself seated on the table. “I don’t know what I’ll ever do to repay you.”

“You owe me nothing.” His shoulders tensed, and he looked down. “It was—”

“If you say it wasn’t a big deal, I will push you into that fire.”

He fought a smile. “Truly, it was a gift. There is no debt.”

“Do you usually give your friends such lovely gifts?”

In the silence, she found herself gripping the edge of the table. _Look at me, please._ Part of her still wanted him to give her a sign, a _definitive_ sign that he wanted her, that she wasn’t inventing something that wasn’t there.

“I am not sure if I have ever had a friend like you,” he murmured, looking up and holding her gaze.

She smiled, leaning forward, wanting to fly off the table. “You’re going to make me blush.”

His voice dropped, getting low and playful. “You say that like it’s a deterrent.” And then his expression hardened, a line creasing his brow. “I only meant—”

“Don’t,” she breathed, letting her feet brush against the floor as she straightened. “Don’t do that.”

His attention held on her face, every line of his body firm, ready to spring, to flee. “Do what?”

The gentle break that had begun earlier when she saw his mural, or two months ago in that dank cavern in the Deep Roads, on that snow-covered hill in a village that no longer existed, finally came to a head as she exhaled, and finally spoke her mind.

“Don’t flirt with me in one breath then treat me like a casual acquaintance in the next. You and I both know that we’re more than that. More than this.”

His expression didn’t waver except for a small tightening of his eyes. “Roslyn—”

“I lied to you on that mountain,” she said in a rush. Confusion flickered across his face, before she continued, “I don’t want to be your friend.”

His eyes cleared, and his lips parted. Silence hung between them again, but she forced herself to wait, to give him time.

“What…do you want?”

“You.”

His expression hardened, but there was something bright in his eyes, something that seemed unwilling to hide once more behind a careful mask and a cold smile.

That pinging warning rose in her chest, but she shoved it aside as she got to her feet, wine forgotten as she walked forward.

He didn’t back away, but she caught the tension in his shoulders, the slight clenching of his jaw, as if he were guarding himself from her.

“I want _you_ , Solas,” she said again, her relief at finally saying it out loud so sweet that she couldn’t help the smile on her own lips. “And I am tired of pretending I don’t. Turns out I’m quite bad at it.”

“I cannot—”

“I know,” she said, took another step forward, “I know. But here’s the thing—I think that’s bullshit.”

A muscle feathered in his jaw, but he didn’t look away, locked in her gaze, as she was locked in his.

“I think you want me, too. I think you’re trying very hard _not_ to want me.” Now that she was talking, she couldn’t stop, the words coming out fast. “If I’m mad, or inventing—”

“You are not,” he murmured.

She rocked back on her heels, watching the conflict play out on his face with a mixture of frustration and endless, wonderful giddiness. “Good.”

His expression twisted with a grimace. “It is not good. Nothing about this is _good_.” He exhaled, composure slipping as longing shone in the depths of his dark eyes. “Roslyn, I cannot— I would not do that to you.”

She took another step forward, clenching her hands at her sides to stop herself from reaching for him. He was close now, just a few feet, it would take only a moment to close the distance. She could practically feel the heat of him, different from the fire at his back, pulsing with a heady, magnetic pull. “Why?”

He said nothing, just shook his head once, body a taut line that looked like it was about to snap.

“ _Why_?” she murmured, staring at his lips, remembering the crush of them against hers, the taste—

“I cannot bear the thought of hurting you,” he said, voice breaking on the last.

She froze, every part of her bending toward the pain in his eyes. _Oh_.

Swallowing the urge to press forward and smother that look herself, she relaxed, eased back. A sad smile tugged at her mouth. “I think it’s a bit late for that, Solas.”

His shoulders sagged, a knowing guilt twisting his mouth. “I…am so sorry for what happened all those months ago in Haven. You surprised me and I—”

She watched him struggle for words, the truth unfurling between them a fragile, flickering thing.

“You are not what I expected.”

“Disappointed?”

His eyes softened. “Not at all. Most people are predictable, products of their upbringing burdened with their own petty prejudices, but you…have risen above the hand fate dealt you. You are brilliant, fierce, unquestionably strong, and I…” He took a shaky breath, eyes dipping down to study her face, as if looking for answers in her cheeks, her lips. “I cannot think when you are near.” A pause, and his voice went low. “How I reacted that night was unforgivable. I regret it still, more than you could ever know. You… _disarm_ me.”

His words brushed like warm waves upon her heart. The fiery heat surging into her chest had tempered, patient for the first time in her life. A calmness settled over her at his admission, at his apology. She hated the hesitation, wanted to shake him of it, but she couldn’t force him into reciprocating her feelings.

She understood the fear, even if she didn’t know where it came from.

“Whatever you’re protecting me from,” she murmured, shifting toward him slowly, waiting for him to tell her to stop, for any sign that he wanted her to leave him alone, “I don’t care.”

Her hand slipped around his forearm in comfort, trying to bridge the gap between them.

He leaned into her touch, his arm coming forward as her hand found his. Their fingers interlaced at once, as if it were only natural, the next step in a dance their bodies fell into without thought.

“I don’t care,” she repeated, letting her aura reach out slowly, tentatively, toward his.

His answered at once, twining with hers, sending a rush of sensation over her skin. She breathed deeply, heart racing at the sheer proximity of him.

“You should,” he murmured even as his head tipped down, and his forehead pressed against hers. 

“I don’t.”

“ _I_ should.”

“ _Fuck_ ‘should’.”

He chuckled, his breath ghosting her cheeks, his fingers tightening over hers, his aura curling around her without thought, without sense. The smell of him filled her nostrils, a sparking rush of sharp, fresh longing, and she wondered dimly if the wolf had somehow amplified her senses.

Her chin tilted up, moved in the next logical step of their dance, and before she knew what was happening, her lips brushed his.

Unlike last time, she held herself back, kept her aura from rushing forward, from pushing them both over an edge that hovered so, so close. The kiss was tentative, gentle, a confirmation only, not a sealing, or a reforging. She wanted him, _Maker_ , did she want him, but the fragile tether wrapped around them both might break with force, might shatter irreparably, if she pushed.

And so she didn’t press herself against him, didn’t indulge the ache that thudded in her spine and made her body sing with heat, but she did kiss him. She traced the curve of his mouth with hers, reached up to hold his face, felt the soft give when his lips parted and a sigh echoed in his chest.

It was the only sign he gave her, but it was enough.

She pulled back and saw that his eyes were closed, lips still parted as he leaned forward—bent, but not broken.

“Whatever it is,” she whispered, still only a few inches from his face, “it won’t change the way I feel about you.”

His eyes opened slowly, reluctantly, roving over her face even as he leaned back. “You cannot know that.”

She grinned, brushed her thumb down his cheek, and couldn’t help herself as she pulled gently on his lower lip. Heat kindled in her chest at the look in his eyes then, almost enough to make her forget herself and her newfound patience—desire, regret, and the same fiery longing she had felt that night on a cold, lonely hill outside Haven. “But I do. You’re the one who keeps calling me stubborn.”

With a last, lingering glance at his lips, she dropped her hand and stepped away.

Only to be held as his grip tightened on her other hand.

“Give me time,” he murmured, turning her palm up and tracing the outline of her mark. He stared, the green light of the anchor brushing shadows across the sharp lines of his face. “Please,” he added softly, making her heart twist.

She took an unsteady breath as he lifted her hand, rotated it, and pressed a kiss to her fingers.

The gesture was so unexpected, so tender and…polite, that her voice broke as she said, “Take all the time you need.”

Their eyes met as she pulled her aura back. It was like fighting against a tide, moving through a sharp wind, but eventually she was herself again, and only the imprint of his aura hovered around her. Present, but shielded.

Her hand slipped from his, and she said, “Thank you for the mural, Solas.”

“I am glad you like it.” His voice was small, contained, nothing like the ragged thing of moments before, but his eyes were bright, remnants of longing winking like stars in their depths. He hesitated, conflict pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“See, this is what I’m talking about,” she murmured, taking a backward step toward her staircase, “you staring at me like that makes things difficult.”

A laugh softened his features somewhat, but he didn’t look away, as if he were unable. “I shall endeavor to correct the way I look at you.”

“Don’t. I like the way you look at me.” Part of her realized how stupid she sounded, but her mind was still fuzzy and warped, humming with the feeling of his lips on hers.

He smirked, and it was all she could do not to kiss the stupid thing from his lips.

“You should probably go.”

He looked down, releasing her as he moved to the door. He stopped before he left, faced her with a steady, piercing focus. “When you kissed me in Haven, and I said it wasn’t right… I did not mean _you_ weren’t right. I will never mean you.”

She waited until the door closed after him, until she took three long, even breaths, before sitting down heavily on the stairs and putting her head in her hands.

Time. He needed time. She could be patient.

A long, muffled moan slipped from her lips as she sagged farther into her knees.


	30. My Reason and My Cause

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Color" by Finish Ticket](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uUqVjTE7gZQ&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&index=31&t=0s)

Roslyn slammed back into the dirt, the air knocked out of her chest. Stars popped at the edges of her vision as she wheezed. A flash of red arced toward her and she rolled to the side just as Isahn’s staff slammed into the ground inches from her temple. Red flames danced along the end in a taunt, and she scowled.

A burst of force got her back on her feet, hand reaching for the staff she’d dropped along with a telekinetic pull. Her left hand closed, white sparks shot up its length as her mind wrapped around it, felt its strength and bend, honed herself to it.

Another flash of red, and Isahn snapped his staff up faster than should have been possible. 

Pain lanced against her fingers, but she leapt back to dodge the brunt of his attack. Spinning, she kicked a lance of force at him, but he pivoted, and spun his staff across his chest to catch her before she could strike again.

She blinked, froze, the smooth end of his staff pressed against the side of her head. The flames burned without heat as they licked her sweat-matted hair, humming gently against her still-intact barrier.

“Fuck,” she breathed, head ringing, chest burning. 

Isahn grinned, blinked slowly, and gave her temple a soft tap as he stepped back. “You are improving, _da’shyl_.”

She caught the water skin he tossed at her, shot him a dark look. “Are you even tired?”

“Do I look tired?”

Her teeth ground as his grin widened. 

“That’s three days now you’ve managed to keep your barrier up.”

“Don’t jinx me, please.” She slumped to the ground, lying back against cold dirt of the practice field and staring up at the sky, the first hints of purple dusk bleeding into soft blue. 

“Such little faith for one dubbed the Herald of Andraste.” He sat down next to her, lithe as a cat, and pulled out his whittling, the same stupid bird he’d been working on for almost two months now.

Her jaw clenched, but she didn’t rise, knowing he was just teasing. She’d started to think he liked pushing her, prodding her, seeing where her temper held. If anything, it only made her more determined _not_ to lose it. 

“I have my council to keep the faith.”

He hummed a little laugh, a wandering tune he used often when he tried to annoy her. Or so she thought, anyway. 

“Are you going to start training me with a sword at some point?”

He tilted his head, meticulously shaving off a sliver of wood along the bird’s neck. “You can wield a sword better than most. I’ve seen you in the practice fields. I’m not interested in teaching you something you already know.”

She frowned, propped herself up on her elbows. “I can’t do what you can do.”

“Not many can,” he said serenely.

“I’m serious. I’ve only ever tried to cast through my sword once, and it shattered.”

He gave her a dry, pointed look. “You do remember what we’ve been working toward the last two months, yes?”

Roslyn kept her mouth shut, but part of her wanted to scream in frustration that her training was moving too slowly. She was progressing, sort of, but it wasn’t fast enough. She couldn’t just sit here at Skyhold honing her skills while the world burned. At least while she galavanted around the countryside, she was helping people, saving lives. 

It had been a week since her return to Skyhold, and there was no news of the Wardens. No news of the Venatori, or even the red templars who had been roving through Crestwood. Nothing. 

“You need to find your patience, _da’shyl_.”

Her jaw clenched at the irony. She _was_ exercising her patience. She’d been exercising her patience for seven fucking days. 

But it was fine. She was perfectly happy to wait. 

_Time_. Fuck time. 

She jerked her chin at the bird in his hands. “Is that _your_ patience, then?”

“Among other things.”

“What is it?”

“A bird.”

“You’re hilarious. What _kind_ of bird?”

Nothing about his expression changed, but she thought she saw a flicker of sadness in his dark eyes. “Iser’amen _._ " She was about to ask, when he continued in a firmer tone, "Dalish legend tells of a bird of ash and fire, who tended the hearth for Sylaise and was her constant companion. Iser'amen is a sign of peace, serenity, a reminder of kinship and home. I carve it to keep that reminder close.”

Roslyn sat up, curiosity piqued. He never talked about his people. “A fascination of yours?”

A smile tugged at one side of his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “You could say that.” He looked at her then, brow arching. “Yours as well?”

“I just… don’t know much about the Dalish.”

“You wouldn’t. The Dalish are not keen on outsiders stealing their secrets.”

“Is a story about a mythical bird a secret?”

“That would depend on who you ask.”

She frowned, wondering at the hard edge to his voice, the almost challenge in his eyes. “You don’t talk about your people much.”

That drew a sharp, dangerous laugh. “Very observant.”

Roslyn held his gaze, waiting, before he turned once more to his carving. She rose to her feet, hiding her frustration, and said, “Thank you for the lesson, _hahren_.”

“ _Mirtha mala serannas, da’shyl._ ”

The practice field she’d chosen was as remote as she could make it, on the edge of the soldiers’ grounds outside the central peak upon which Skyhold itself was built. The wind was a bit sharper outside its walls, less forgiving, but the magic thrummed in the ground all the same, humming under her wherever she walked. 

“You’ll want a blade forged specifically for your magic,” he called, making her stop at the edge of the field. 

She watched him for a moment, the image of him sitting on a boulder in his dark leathers, braided hair pulled up behind his head and surrounded by white-capped mountains, tugging at something in the back of her mind. 

“I don’t have to go on a quest or something to prove myself worthy?”

He chuckled. “You could if you wanted to. You could also forge one yourself and do the truly proper thing. I'm sure I could think up some vigil or ceremony. But I think your arcanist is better suited to the task.”

She grinned, inclined her head, and left him to his thoughts, hidden as they always were. 

Winding through the training fields and tents, stopping to visit with her officers and troops, she made a slow return to the castle. The soldiers were shaping up into something that might truthfully be called an army. Construction on another barracks had gone underway while she was traveling around Lake Calenhad to house the Inquisition’s standing army, numbering now over five thousand soldiers. Along with the other workers, agents, and assorted personnel, Skyhold had grown into a small city when she wasn’t looking. 

The thought troubled her, that many people dependent upon and subject to _her_ , but she made herself learn their names, hear their stories, drink their ale and laugh at their jokes. They were her men. She could give them a smile or a word of encouragement.

Besides, it helped to distract her from the growing tension of Solas’ distance. She wasn’t avoiding him, not like she’d done right after reaching Skyhold, but she hadn’t sought him out. He wanted space, time to think, and she would give it to him. It didn’t help that every time she stared too long at the mural over her bed, or let her eyes wander toward the rotunda, she remembered their kiss, their lovely, soft, stupidly tender kiss. 

And so she had thrown herself into work, into training, into anything she could get her hands on, really. Josephine had been alarmed by her new zeal for Orlesian heraldry, but excited. Leliana had said nothing, though her ravens probably had eyes all around the keep that would give her all the gossip and scandal of the Inquisitor’s love-life. Maker knew, Dorian, Varric, and Cassandra were about as subtle as headless chickens. She'd helped Cullen with duty rosters, organized the implementation of a triage ward in the lower courtyard. She'd even spent an entire day entertaining an Orlesian duke while Josephine coordinated an arranged marriage that was supposed to help them move agents into the Dales to hunt for rifts. All in an attempt to keep her mind off Solas. 

Coming up from the Undercroft, where she'd found Dagna bent excitedly over a pile of sparking yellow rocks giving off a soured-milk smell, the main hall was blessedly empty as she made for her rooms, eager for a bath and a decent night’s sleep. 

“My dear Inquisitor, there you are.”

Her eyes closed as she sent a silent prayer up to Andraste for more damn patience, and turned to smile at Vivienne, standing in the hallway to Josephine’s office. 

“Vivienne. Lovely as always.”

She smiled and tilted her head. “Don’t you look spent. Long day down in the training fields?”

Roslyn tensed, the note of intention in Vivienne’s voice making her wary. They might have gotten along in Jader, and she might respect the woman, but there was a chasm of difference between respect and trust. 

“Nothing I can’t handle. I was heading in for the night, actually.”

Her brow arched. “Then I caught you just in time. Josephine and I had hoped to get your opinion on something.”

Roslyn didn’t move. “Funny, I had lunch with Josephine earlier, and she didn’t mention anything.”

“I asked her to wait until I had made all the arrangements. Didn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

They stared at each other, Roslyn watching the steel shimmer in her clear eyes. _Why do I have a bad feeling about this?_ she asked the wolf, smoothing its ire as it rose and caught the thread of her misgivings. 

“I’m intrigued,” she said, walking toward Vivienne with what she hoped was a firm warning in her own eyes. 

She followed after the woman’s small smile, allowing herself only one brief clenching of her fists before she smoothed her face into a cool mask. 

Josephine stood in her office, with Leliana and an armored elven woman Roslyn didn’t recognize. She caught the apprehension in Josephine’s expression, the still assessment in Leliana’s eyes, and felt her mind sharpen, readying for whatever they’d all decided to spring on her now. 

“My lady,” Josephine said, smiling and gesturing toward the elf, “if I might introduce Commander Helaine, previously of the Divine Guard.”

She didn’t react as realization thudded into her stomach.

“Commander.” She inclined her head toward the elf, who had hard, lined eyes and an expression that almost rivaled Cassandra's for intensity.

“Hold and declare, Inquisitor,” she said, voice firm and ringing, “I would know your intent.”

Roslyn’s patience and self-restraint was only so much, and she couldn’t help as her eyes widened. _Aren’t we direct?_ The wolf rumbled in annoyance, watching the elf with as much unease as she. 

Leliana actually smiled, turning to the side in an attempt to hide her amusement. 

Roslyn looked to Vivienne and then Josephine, brow raised. “It might help if I knew what I was supposed to be declaring.”

The elf’s eyes narrowed, looking at Vivienne. “Was I not summoned to train the Inquisitor?”

A low buzz of outrage and frustration began in the back of her head as she bit off a laugh. “Ah. Well. I can see how this is confusing for you.”

She turned and walked past Josephine toward her desk, meeting Leliana’s gaze as she did. 

Her spymaster, at least, seemed to guess at her feelings on the matter. 

“Perhaps this is not the best time to broach the topic,” Josephine said, voice fluid and diplomatic, but tense. 

“No, let’s broach,” Roslyn said, leaning over Josephine’s desk for her stash of Antivan brandy, fishing out a few glasses and pouring one for herself. She turned, offering the decanter to the room. 

Only Leliana seemed to appreciate the attempt, though she shook her head. 

Commander Helaine watched her with disapproving eyes. “Is it your custom to drink when addressing a commanding officer?”

Anger surged up her chest, but the only sign she gave was a sharp smile. She took a long sip of brandy, setting the decanter down and letting the silence grow tense. 

Maybe she _was_ getting better at this patience thing. 

“I mean no offense, serah, but in this keep, I have no commanding officer.” She let her words settle, keeping her voice cool, casual. “I’m sorry you journeyed what I can only assume was a long way to be refused outright, but I will not be needing your services. However, if you would consider joining the Inquisition, I extend you the most gracious of invitations. I know of the Divine Guard, and their renown. Knight Enchanters are rare breed, and a mighty force. I would welcome you into our ranks, if you find our aim to restore order to the world and avenge the Divine’s death is worthy of your immense talent.”

Silence settled over the room again. She could feel Vivienne's gaze like a knife pressed to her cheek, but she didn’t look away from the elf. 

Commander Helaine's expression tensed, but she nodded. “I see. I will think on it, Inquisitor.”

“Please do. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to speak to my advisors alone. I would, however, be more than happy to introduce you to the Grand Enchanter tomorrow. If I cannot convince you of our need, perhaps she might.”

The elf shot Vivienne a searching look, but merely inclined her head, and left. 

Vivienne waited all of two breaths before saying, “Well, I can’t say I expected—"

“I’m sorry, Vivienne, but I said I would like to speak to my advisors alone.” She held the enchanter’s gaze as thorns grew in it. “I appreciate the thought of sending for a trainer. No doubt you had my better interests in mind, but in the future I’d like to be made aware of any invitations to my castle _before_ they arrive.”

Tension stretched between them, and Roslyn knew that if she gave even an inch, the woman would know it, and seize on it. 

Finally, after what felt like an hour of silence, she pursed her lips, cocked her head. Her eyes flashed with dismissive anger. “Very well, Inquisitor.”

Roslyn watched her go, waiting until the last of her robes had vanished behind the door, and relaxed. 

“My lady—”

“Josephine, let me start, please.” Roslyn stood, finished her glass of brandy, wincing as her limbs pulsed with the ache of her training. “I wish you would have given me some warning. Or perhaps come to me first.”

“I would have, of course, had I known the woman was coming today,” Josephine said, an apologetic frown creasing her face. “I was under the impression Commander Helaine was due in two weeks time.”

“Vivienne has a way of speeding things up when she wills something done,” Leliana mused, walking over to the door to the main hall and closing it. 

“I had intended to entertain the topic with you over tea,” Josephine said, eyeing the decanter at Roslyn’s back. “If you don’t mind, my lady.”

“It’s yours, Josephine,” Roslyn said with a laugh, moving aside as she poured herself a glass. 

“I am sincerely sorry, Inquisitor." Josephine passed a hand over her face, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I never meant to offend you like this.”

“I’m not offended.” Roslyn toyed with her empty glass, looking from her ambassador to her spymaster. “You don’t like Isahn.”

Josephine’s brow furrowed. “I would not say that. Merely that he is… something of an odd choice in teacher.”

“Do you know who he is?” Leliana folded her arms over her chest, not bothering with any niceties. “Where he comes from, what his motivations are?”

“I don’t.” Roslyn held her gaze, adding, “Solas knows him, vouches for him.” That, perhaps, went a bit far, but the distrust apparent in both their faces made her uncomfortable. 

She’d known that a Dalish elf would be looked upon with suspicion, especially in such a visible place, but she’d hoped they would at least wait a while before attempting to throw him out. Or trusted that she could take care of herself. It had barely been a week.

Silence, and then Josephine said, “As much as we trust that Solas would not allow a disreputable man train you, Inquisitor, you must understand the image you—”

“I’m fully aware of the image it presents, Josephine.” Roslyn put her glass down, reined in the sharpness of her tone. “I was aware of it when I asked him to train me. As I am aware of your reasons behind finding me a trainer borne from the Chantry.”

“The Knight Enchanters are a prestigious order, Inquisitor.” Leliana tilted her head in consideration, expression growing soft around the edges before it returned to its usual impassivity. “They are among the finest warriors I have ever known. Many of them died in the Conclave protecting the Divine to their last breath. Like it or not, you represent the faithful, and the faithful trust the title of Knight Enchanter.”

“Then perhaps it’s time for the _faithful_ to broaden their horizons.” Roslyn held her gaze, kept her voice low, level, even as her discomfort flared. “I am what I am, and what I choose to be, not a reflection of the Chantry’s best wishes. Whether or not the faithful trust me is my problem. I understand the effort, but Isahn is my trainer until such time as I see fit to ask him to leave. I hope you both understand that.”

The silence was tense, a bit awkward, but Leliana seemed to accept her. There was an almost approving gleam in her eyes, even if she clearly was already thinking of having Isahn tailed and his unknown past uncovered at once.

Josephine’s mouth pursed, before she said, “We simply wanted to give you the option, my lady. We thought that, perhaps, someone from the Circle might be more… familiar.”

Roslyn’s jaw clenched as heat rose up her cheeks. She knew Josephine meant nothing by it, that she viewed the Circle like everyone else in Thedas—either an unpleasant necessity or a rightful prison—but she had a hard time finding her voice as anger flashed through her mind. 

“You do remember that I came to the Circle as a member of the Rebellion, Josephine?” 

Her face tensed, and recognition filtered into her eyes. “I—of course I do, Inquisitor.”

“Then you’ll understand that I have no fondness for it, or for my time spent as the Chantry’s prisoner. Any familiarity I feel toward the Circle would not be the good kind.”

Josephine inclined her head, voice low, cautious. “I understand.”

She set her glass down, taking a short breath to settle her anger. “If Commander Helaine decides to stay, I have some ideas as to how she might benefit the Inquisition. And if you are free, you are welcome to join us tomorrow morning when we meet with Fiona.”

Straightening, and giving them both a tight nod, she said, “I’m going to retire for the night.”

They gave her muted farewells, and she felt their stares on her back as she left the room and made for her quarters. 

The moment she was alone in her bedroom, she braced a hand against the staircase railing and let out a sharp exhale. 

It made sense, in a way, that they would think she’d want to be trained by someone from the Chantry. She’d spared the templars, welcomed them into the Inquisition with open arms. She’d made nice with Chantry officials who had visited, played the pious savior whenever it was asked of her. Fuck, she believed herself that Andraste had chosen her. It made sense even that Vivienne would think she wanted her help, after the last few months of their thawing relationship. And she'd made sure to train with Isahn away from everyone else. It had been to protect him from prying eyes, but... 

Her hand clenched around the banister, and the wolf rose to prod at her unease. 

Had she tied herself too closely to the Chantry? The Chantry that had oppressed her people, mages, and, in a dark, secret space of her heart she’d never dared acknowledge, _elves?_  It was built on the teachings that she was inherently wrong for the simple fact of her existence. And no matter how much she feared what was happening to her now with the visions, she didn’t have the energy to hate her power anymore. Not when it could help people. Not when she was the only one who might be able to stop Coryphea. 

All those moments with Isahn, prodding her about her affiliation with the Chantry, with her role as their vanguard and _Herald_ , suddenly came into sharp relief. 

It didn’t matter what she said. Only what she did. 

She undressed for the night, letting the wolf comfort her as best it could as her mind turned over the doubt, the unease, again and again. 

Sensing her distraction, the wolf dragged her down into the Fade, and she went willingly. 

Aligning quickly to consciousness again, she blinked up at the shifting light of her room. The mural above her shone and shimmered in shafts of green and yellow light, filtering through the open doors of her balcony. 

She rolled out of bed, only to feel damp grass under her toes. Looking around with an incredulous smile, she saw twining vines of verdant flowers, crawling over her bed and draped from her ceiling like a canopy. Her room looked as if thousands of years of growth had reclaimed the stone fortress.

Rising and stepping cautiously toward the open balcony doors, she heard the bright trill of birdsong a moment before brilliant yellow burst in and nearly toppled her over with the strength of its excitement. 

“Hello, Duck,” she laughed, trying to catch the golden sparrow as it flapped around her head, trailing dusted sunlight in its wake. “What on earth have you done to my room?”

It settled on her shoulder, cooing into her ear and finding strands of hair to nibble on. 

Now that she was up, she saw that the light had a source, and that all the vines crept in from the open doors, as if another realm had been opened and spilled into her room.

She walked forward, and froze as she caught sight of an ancient forest. The same forest Duck had first brought her to Solas, and Wisdom. 

Nerves made her throat tighten, and she was about to turn away, until she felt the thread of her wolf leading forward. 

“Shit,” she muttered, moving at once. If the wolf had disturbed the pair, after she’d promised to give Solas space... 

_You remember the last time you met him, right?_ she asked it, moving as quickly as she could through the large roots and wildflowers, Duck flying at her side in excited ignorance. _It wasn’t the most pleasant of experiences._

The wolf only pulled lazily on their connection, not showing her where it was. It was almost like a taunt, if anything. 

“We’re going to talk about this new attitude of yours,” she whispered under her breath as she clambered over trunks that came up to her chest.

With her heightened awareness of the Fade, the forest was even more beautiful than it had been before. The golden shafts drew patterns in the air, ancient symbols lost to time and memory that spoke of a vast realm of knowledge she couldn’t begin to grasp. Every tree seemed perfectly placed, an ordered, deliberate chaos that sang with harmony, intention. Drifts of song whispered faint melodies, just loud enough to hear, but too soft to follow the tune. Everything layered in a calm, lovely energy that thrummed in the ground and pulsed in every flower and tree and blade of grass. 

She remembered Solas speaking about forests growing conscious, exuding their own magic. If this forest did have a counterpart in the waking world, its aura would be vast, alien. _Like Skyhold_ , she thought. 

And it was old. She didn’t know how she knew, but the longer she spent in the forest, the more she felt it as truth, that, like Wisdom, these trees were more ancient than she could conceive of.

Roslyn knew when she approached the clearing, felt the wolf drawing near, and slowed her steps, reading herself for explanations of why it had barged in where it wasn’t wanted.

Only to pause at the edge, confusion breaking her apprehension. 

The wolf sat beside Wisdom, once again in a simple white dress, black hair loose around her ears, standing next to the tree stump. It had sprawled across the ground next to the spirit, as if it might coax her into rubbing its belly. 

Wisdom looked up, smile breaking across her ageless face. Her eyes shone a bright, fresh green of grass and new growth. “Hello, Roslyn. Or should I call you Inquisitor now?”

Roslyn blinked as the wolf cocked its head, rolled lazily to its feet and padded toward her. “Ah, no—Roslyn, please.”

Duck sped off in a huff, landing on the tree stump in the center of the clearing and ruffling its feathers, clearly disgruntled. 

Wisdom sighed, and brushed a hand over its head. “Fickle things, young spirits are.”

Roslyn only hummed in assent, eyes flitting around the clearing for some sign of Solas. 

“He isn’t here,” Wisdom murmured with a knowing smile, rising fluidly to her feet. 

She thought about playing it off like she hadn’t been looking for him, but the subtle shimmer of Wisdom’s eyes told her it wouldn’t work. “Oh. Well. Hello,” she managed, frowning at the wolf as it bumped her shoulder, tried to lick her face. “I’m sorry about—ah, this one. It's… new and doesn't understand the importance of privacy.”

The wolf circled behind her and actually pushed her forward. 

_What the fuck has gotten into you?_ she asked, trying not to look too uncomfortable as she approached the center of the clearing. 

“Oh, I don’t mind. Your friend is fascinating.” Her eyes seemed to shine with a pointed gleam. “Old, and new, and yours, though the differences are starting to show.”

Roslyn stared, her discomfort fading. “Do you know what it is? How it—I made it?”

When she was only a few feet from Wisdom, the wolf slumped to the ground again, practically rolling over her feet. 

“I guessed as much, when I felt you coming. It was clearly borne into this world from you, but you did not make it so much as remake it, I think.”

“How can you tell?”

“Its energy is far older than yours. Its sentience is new, but growing.” She paused, tilted her head. “You gave it shape, a reason to _be_ , as you _are_.”

Roslyn took a deep breath, questions flooding her mind. 

“I cannot know for sure, of course,” Wisdom continued, her voice light and airy, but hinting at something else, something more. “Strange forces move around you, Inquisitor, and this kind of magic has not been seen for many, many lifetimes.”

“You’re talking about the anchor.”

Wisdom stared at her, but didn’t press, not like she had before. Still, Roslyn felt like a subject being examined, a line of confusing text on which the spirit was focused.  “I am.”

“Solas seemed to think I formed it during the explosion at the Conclave,” Roslyn said, scratching idly behind the wolf’s ear when it bumped pointedly against her leg. 

A wide smile stretched across the spirit’s face, and she hummed a laugh. “I’m sure Solas has many thoughts. Most he will keep to himself. As he always does.”

Roslyn smiled at the affection in the spirit’s voice, arched her brow. “Solas? Keeping secrets? Surely not.”

Wisdom’s eyes widened in delight. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

“I’m sorry if it disturbed you,” she said, skating over the pleasant warmth in her chest at Wisdom’s approval. 

The wolf huffed as it rose to its full height and tried to knock her over, but she moved out of the way. 

“Disturbed? No, not at all.” Wisdom pushed Duck over gently, allowing it to settle on her lap as she sat on the tree stump. “Your wolf has been nothing but pleasant the few times we’ve met.”

Roslyn paused in the act of pushing it from her face, earning her a press of its cold, wet nose. _Yes, yes, I like you as well_ , she thought in distraction, keeping her eyes on Wisdom. “Few times?”

“Did it not tell you?”

Roslyn’s jaw clenched and she finally turned to the wolf, pulling its nose down so she could glare into its six pale-green eyes. “No, it did not.”

The wolf shook her off, paced behind her and rested its snout on her shoulder. 

Warmth radiated from its body and she leaned back, wrapping her mind around the idea that it had a life separate from hers. They didn’t spend every night together, but she thought it just wandered aimlessly, got into trouble somewhere on its own. Apparently she was so distracted with everything else that she hadn’t realized it was making friends as well. 

Wisdom’s smile turned soft in the silence. “You have changed since we last met.”

Roslyn’s chest tightened, but she nodded. “A bit.” 

“For the better, if I might be so presumptuous as to claim.”

“You’re very kind,” Roslyn murmured. Their previous conversation surfaced, and she felt the bright heat, that burning core in her chest, warm. 

Wisdom had told her to listen to the winged woman’s words. Had she seen something in Roslyn all those months ago? Would she even recognize Andraste’s influence?

Roslyn held her tongue as the spirit stared at her, not wanting to ask too much. They didn't know each other, and she still fought against the impossibility that she was in a position to question a spirit of wisdom.

Wisdom seemed to sense her preoccupation, because her eyes flicked down to her chest, held, and something sparked in their bright depths. “Or perhaps—” Her voice cut off as her form flickered. 

Roslyn and the wolf tensed, alarmed by the sudden fracture in the air. The forest was still whole, but something had broken the calm. 

Wisdom sighed, lifted Duck into the air so it could fly off her lap. “Do not be concerned. I am merely being summoned. Rather insistently, it seems.”

_Summoned?_ By a mage, Roslyn realized with a sick kind of guilt. Spirits of wisdom were rare, it was strange that any mage had found her, been powerful enough to perform the ritual.

To perform the _binding_.

_Oh, Maker._  


“Wisdom,” she said urgently, taking a step forward, as if she might hold the spirit in the Fade before the summoning could find purchase. 

But she didn’t get the chance. 

Wisdom’s eyes flashed in alarm. The clearing seemed to shift and harden, a fierce, sudden perversion sweeping through the trees like a whip and a howl. Roslyn’s chest seized in foreign panic as something _pulled_ , harder and more violent than the tug of wakefulness.Duck trilled and jumped higher, and the wolf bristled, a deep rumble bursting from its bared teeth.

The spirit only managed a soft, broken, “ _Oh_ ,” before her form vanished entirely. 

Roslyn stared at the empty space as the wolf’s panic filtered through hers, as Duck circled the air over her head, its call growing frantic. 

The forest looked to be unchanged, but there was a loss to the emptiness now. An obvious lack. 

“No,” Roslyn whispered, pacing forward, throwing out her aura to grasp some thread left behind by the spirit. 

A violent pain cracked against her and she recoiled, gripped with the intense fear and dread that must have been Wisdom’s last thoughts before ripped into the waking world. 

If Wisdom had been summoned, been pulled against her will from the Fade… 

Roslyn sent her consciousness inward, not even knowing what she was doing, until she felt that node of connection to the waking world, and _pushed_. 

Coming out of the Fade of her own volition was strange, propelled forward instead of pulled back, like surging through an opposing current rather than being dragged along in its wake. 

She surged up from her bed, heart beating, dread coiling around her throat. The wolf rose with her, pacing in concern in the back of her mind. She tugged on her pants draped over the chair where she had left them, hopping toward the staircase as fear twisted her gut.

Roslyn was down to her antechamber before she realized she’d left Duck in a panic back in the Fade. 

“ _Shit_ ,” she murmured, pushing aside her guilt for the moment.

The keep was still, the coals long-dead in the braziers lining the main hall. She saw no guards, an errant thought tucked away for later concern, and the darkness outside the windows was heavy, the night potent in the early hours of the morning. Skyhold was silent, but over it hung an ominous, suffocating feeling, and her heartbeat was loud in her ears. 

She half-ran toward the rotunda, slipping into the side hall and knocking on the first door before she could stop to think that perhaps Solas had moved rooms.

But she had barely removed her hand before the door opened. 

Though it was dark, she could see his outline, her vision sharper with the wolf’s aid. His chest was bare, but the tension in his shoulders told her he’d awoken before she’d knocked, had just enough time to get out of bed.

“Wisdom?” he asked, voice low and eerily calm.

She swallowed, knowing he had felt Wisdom's fear, just like he’d felt her fear at seeing the wolf for the first time over a year ago, and nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elven**  
>  _Mirtha mala serannas, da’shyl._ \- I honor your thanks, little star.


	31. Words Unfold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["the deadlock" by iamamiwhoami](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WDCwzIJbgso&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&t=0s&index=32)

Roslyn’s lower room was lit by flickering candlelight, casting stark shadows over the fine furniture and elegant tapestry on the far wall. She had only had enough time to light a few candles, too preoccupied with dressing, packing for what she hoped would not be an extended journey.

Even now, she fought the urge to pace along with her wolf, hands clenched as she stared down at the small map of the Hinterlands, the only one she’d managed to find in her personal belongings. The marker sitting at the edge of the farmlands taunted her in the low light, too small, too mundane.

“And you two will go alone?”

She looked up and met Leliana’s gaze where she stood on the other side of the table.

Her spymaster wore a simple robe over her nightclothes, and without her customary violet hood, she looked oddly soft, as if her armor of shadows was a temporary guise, discarded every night when she went to sleep.

“Yes. It’s—a sensitive matter. I’d rather not alert anyone else if I can help it.” Roslyn tightened her gloves for a third time, fidgeting. “And we’ll be passing the Grand Forest Villa. If this turns into something bigger, I can ask Rylen for back up.”

Rylen had been stationed at the fortress for the better part of the last six months, building up a secondary army out of the Ferelden volunteers and recruits they didn’t have room to house in Skyhold. It wouldn’t be their best men and women, but it would be something.

Though, she had the suspicion they would need stealth and speed over force for this particular mission. Whoever had summoned Wisdom wasn’t hiding their tracks well, and Solas had only sensed a few auras lingering in the impression of Wisdom’s clearing in the Fade. Perhaps Venatori still lingering in the hills east of Redcliffe.

Or the rebel mages that didn’t join the Inquisition. There had been a few who had refused and fled into the wilds, presumably to seek anonymity rather than another fight, but the bulk of the Rebellion had come with Fiona to Haven. She didn’t think any former Circle mages would be stupid enough to summon a spirit as powerful as Wisdom, but there was no telling what they might try, cut off from the Rebellion and alone in the woods.

Another thought lingered in the back of her mind. One she had not yet voiced for fear that it might be true. 

“This friend of Solas’s,” Leliana murmured, eyes sharp and steady, no sign of fatigue in them even though Roslyn had woken her up only fifteen minutes before, “I take it they are not of the waking world?”

Roslyn said nothing, jaw clenched. Solas hadn’t told her to conceal Wisdom’s identity, but she knew better than to come right out with the truth, that she was speeding into the night to save a spirit. She might have awoken Cassandra, or Dorian, but there wasn’t time. And while they both might be willing to help, sympathetic, even, she didn’t know how many people Solas wanted involved in this.

“I am not casting judgement, Inquisitor. I merely want to understand why you cannot take anyone else with you.”

“We don’t have time to explain, and it will be faster with just the two of us.” Roslyn straightened as she felt Solas’s aura approach—purposefully alerting her of his presence. “We’ll be fine, Leliana.”

A knowing glint shone in the spymaster’s eyes, a concession, and curiosity, as Solas entered, pack slung over his shoulder next to his staff, his face a hard, unreadable mask.

Leliana looked at him, answered his short nod with one of her own. “Two horses have been readied,” she said. “I will inform Master Dennet of their absence in the morning.”

Solas didn’t look at Roslyn as she followed him out, her own pack feeling too heavy, pulling on her just like the dread in her stomach.

“If you have time,” Leliana said, drawing her attention before she could enter the great hall after Solas, “check in with my scouts in the Hinterlands. I’d like to at least know that you arrived safely.”

A quick smile pulled at Roslyn’s mouth. Leliana might be cold and distant, but there was an acceptance to her, an understanding that spoke to a long life spent cutting corners and weighing emotion in one hand and duty in the other. It was why Roslyn had chosen to wake her, rather than her other advisors.

“Give Josephine my apologies, as always.”

Leliana’s brow arched. “Poor Helaine will have to fend for herself against the Grand Enchanter.”

“I’ll think she’ll manage.” Roslyn hesitated. “Thank you.”

Leliana inclined her head, watching her go with barely-concealed interest.

Solas waited for her at the end of the hall, eyes distant, catching the faint light and giving off a reflective sheen when they moved to her.

“I expected to have an entourage,” he murmured.

“Oh, there will probably be someone following us,” she mused, her footsteps loud amidst the quiet of the fortress. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Charter’s hiding in the shadows as we speak.”

His expression remained blank, his eyes flat as he surveyed the courtyard. 

She hated this stillness in him. It made her want to scream, to run through Skyhold simply to scare it into life, into chaos. Chaos, she could deal with. This veil of heaviness sitting over the castle, pulled in his wake, was suffocating. She wanted to shake him out of it, but she kept her hands to herself and her eyes mostly off his face. She understood why he’d retreated, terrified, furious, for his friend, but she hated it. And she didn’t know how to help.

A scout whose name she didn’t know waited with two horses at the gate, only a few guards on sentry above them to watch curiously as the Inquisitor and her elven companion mounted and raced down the bridge to the valley beyond.

The morning sun rose to meet them, and she couldn’t shake the familiarity, the feeling of fleeing into the night from Haven all those months ago, to save the mages from a fate they’d sealed for themselves.

But she had lied to Solas then, and now she was racing with him to save a spirit, a friend, the wolf in her mind sharing her urgency, rather than fueling it.

So much had changed about her from the woman she was then, she barely recognized herself. But the dread was the same, and she fought to keep her mind from wandering into that nightmare future, from preparing for the worst.

A few hours after dawn, they stopped beside a partially-thawed mountain stream to give their horses a rest, to let them drink and brush them down. Roslyn was so distracted with her own thoughts that she didn’t realize Solas was staring at her until she looked up from filling her water skin.

“You said your wolf was with Wisdom before you arrived?”

She straightened and tucked an errant piece of hair behind her ear, fighting the tension that built in her chest at his empty gaze. “It was. Apparently they’d met a few times.”

He didn’t react except for a small tightening of his mouth.

“I didn’t know about it until last night,” she murmured, running a hand along her horse’s neck to keep it from clenching.

“I was not—,” he started, brow furrowing as he looked down. His expression softened. “I did not mean to imply you were hiding it from me. I am merely surprised.”

The wolf sat clearly in her mind’s eye, watching Solas with a cautious curiosity. “That makes both of us. Wisdom…said the wolf was changing. I think it’s growing apart from me. Not like it used to be, but…” She frowned, and the wolf brushed against her in reassurance. “It seems to have mind of its own now.”

There had been no time to consider the idea, to truly reconcile herself to the fact that it might be separating from her. Not like it had before, never like that. But she’d grown used to sharing her life with it. She didn’t know what it would mean if the wolf, the spirit, changed. What it would mean for them both.

Solas gazed at her in silence, and she couldn’t decide if the shadow in his eyes was disapproval or concern.

A frisson of displaced energy broke the tension, and Roslyn jumped as a soft, familiar voice said, “It likes you now. It won’t hurt you again.”

Roslyn exhaled as she gave Cole a sharp look. He stood beside Solas’s horse and held out an apple with an easy calm at odds with his sudden appearance.

“Maker’s balls, Cole,” she muttered, “a little warning next time?”

He tipped his head up, sky blue eyes peering out from under his hat, brow creased in confusion as the horse ate happily. “Solas knew I was here.”

“Did he?” she asked, brow lifting. He was crouching over his pack, but she caught the slight smile pulling at his mouth. It didn’t reach his eyes.

She blinked, frowned. “Cole, how on earth did you follow us so quickly? We were riding on horses.”

“They don’t mind,” he said. “You’re not that heavy.”

Solas let out a sharp chuckle.

“Well, I’m glad the horse can manage me without too much complaint,” she muttered, drinking her entire water skin before refilling it again.

It was silent for a few moments, the sounds of the stream and the brisk mountain air settling some of the hard-edged fear surrounding them.

“She knows,” Cole murmured, so quietly Roslyn almost missed it, before he vanished again into a cloud of smoke.

Solas had gone still, staring through the ground. For one, brief moment, fear and guilt surfaced in his eyes, twisted his face into a mask of emotion. And then it was gone. 

“Solas,” she said, unable to keep her suspicions to herself any longer. 

He stood, not looking at her. 

“I know it’s not exactly a rare occurrence, but Wisdom being summoned like that…”

“I had the same thought.” He finished tightening the straps of his saddle. “If Wisdom was summoned for the same reason the rage demon we encountered under Crestwood was summoned, we should expect interference.”

Her throat grew tight at his lack of inflection, the cold, calculated way he spoke. “It might be something else—”

“We shall not know until we arrive.” His voice softened, and he looked at her for a brief moment. “We should keep moving.”

Roslyn dragged her gaze away, fighting an urge to comfort him, to say something that might ease the pain in the rigid set of his shoulders, the hard feather of muscle in his jaw.

They rode hard in silence the rest of the morning and afternoon, passing from the snow-covered valleys of the Frostbacks into the Hinterlands proper, thick grass and wildflowers swallowing the rocky dirt, trees piercing the hills as red cliffs rose up out of the mist. They stopped once more after midday, Cole inexplicably present again. She had half a mind to ask Solas if he was riding with him, but she held her tongue. His expression had only grown harder, his gaze colder. A coiled tension hung around him, and she knew better than to press.

She, more than anyone, knew when someone retreated behind the walls in their mind to protect themselves.

They passed through familiar hills and valleys, close to the Crossroads, but cut around it, not wanting to draw any unwanted attention from the villagers. She doubted these mages knew the spirit they’d summoned had been talking to the Inquisitor, but she didn’t want to push their luck.

The horses remained at one of their outposts outside of Dennet’s farms along with an instruction to send word to Leliana. Solas led her into the wilds where he claimed he had felt Wisdom’s aura flare. Cole flickered in and out beside them, sometimes humming to himself, sometimes whispering under his breath, as if calming the hills themselves.

After nearly an hour in silence, as dusk began to flow over them, Roslyn could no longer hold herself back. She reached out for Solas’s arm, pulling him to a stop in the shadow of a cliff, the quiet rush of a stream trickling beyond them, but hidden by bends in the rocky path.

“Solas,” she murmured when he didn’t look at her, “we’re going to help her.”

His arm flexed, but he didn’t pull away. He was frozen, staring without seeing. She expected him to deflect, until he said, “You cannot know that.”

She dropped her hand, hating the cold edge to his voice. “I can hope.”

Hope that the mages hadn’t simply consumed Wisdom for power. That she hadn’t been twisted into something unrecognizable in the shock of entering the waking world.

His eyes moved back to her, intent, almost angry—until something broke in them, and their corners creased in a weak smile. “Ever the optimist.”

Relief filtered into her chest, and she gave him a small grin. “Sometimes.”

“I never thanked you for coming with me.” He searched her face, expression tight with gratitude, with fear, and he murmured, “I could not have done this alone.”

“You don’t have to.”

The silence held, until a sound pulled her attention—susurrus and catching, threading through the valley toward them, so like the noise of the stream that she barely recognized the difference. It sounded almost like veilfire, but these whispers were cold, empty, no curiosity or comfort in them that spoke of the Fade.

The hair on the back of her neck rose as Cole appeared from the shadows, staring with her at the source of the noise. “They didn’t cry out,” he murmured. “There was no one to help them. Pain, fear, for the first time in years, and then nothing.” His voice grew strained, emotional, as anger flashed across his pale face. “No one helped them.”

He moved before she could stop him, slipping around the bend in the rock face.

Solas seemed to mirror her concern, sliding his staff from his back at the same time she unsheathed her sword and let her aura rise.

It hit her once she rounded the bend—blood magic pulsing in the air like a cloud of cloying fumes, making it thick, liquid. But it was stale. No auras rose to greet her as they proceeded, saw the stream, and across it, a partially hidden cave covered by fallen trees and half-dead brush.

Her hand clenched around the grip of her sword, the wolf’s uneasy rumble filtering into the back of her mind. That cold whisper pricked at her, like thorns dragged along her cheek.

The cave was lit by a faint grey-blue light in the back, large slabs of shimmering stone shadowing a pile of something that made her stomach twist. A brush of Solas’s aura, light flared from the end of his staff—and the pile of skulls shone eerily white.

“Maker’s breath,” she whispered, swallowing back the fear that gripped icy talons around her throat.

“Venatori,” Solas said, voice flat, as he motioned toward a make-shift camp set up in the mouth of the cave, familiar enough from their brief sightings of the Tevinter cultists over the past few months.

“And the summoning circle,” she murmured, gaze caught between his expression and the faded lines etched in blood in the very back of the cave, next to the pile of skulls. “Now we know who was causing trouble in Crestwood.”

He nodded, face still, cut from marble.

“What were they even doing with…this?” She waved a hand at the skulls, fighting revulsion.

“They summoned a powerful spirit of Wisdom. They needed information,” Solas said, turning from the circle to the few tables lining the walls, covered in scraps of parchment, burn marks, splotches of dried, dark liquid that had to be more blood. “Information she would not give willingly.”

She looked back to see Cole standing at the mouth of the cave, face in shadow, staring at the pile of skulls.

“They must have moved her,” she said, walking over to a table, picking up scraps of paper. Most were empty, a few had lists of names, which she pocketed for her scouts. She was already planning on sending a few to catalogue the cave when she got back, to figure out what the skulls and shimmering rocks were for, when her eyes caught on a name—Alexius.

She squinted into the dim light, skimming the discarded note about shards and something called oculara—until the second paragraph, when her mind narrowed to the words on the page.

_There must be more Tranquil in the area—the rebels abandoned most of them when they fled their Circles. We got most of them, but Alexius wants more for Bard. Remember, the skull will only attune properly if the Tranquil is in close proximity to one of the shards when the demon is forced to possess him. Even then, the blow must be delivered immediately. The oculara produced from Tranquil killed even minutes later failed to illuminate the shards when used._

The whispers grew louder, darker, as she stared transfixed at the page, read it again, and again.

The Tranquil. The skulls belonged…to Tranquil.

From a far-removed corner in her mind, she heard a boy’s laughter, saw a spiral sun branded above clear green eyes.

Her stomach bottomed out. Her eyes unfocused. Chills streamed along her arms and back.

The Tranquil. 

_Oh, Maker…_

“Roslyn?”

She blinked, saw splotches of moisture on the paper in her hands, and realized her eyes were burning with tears. She held the paper out to Solas, who didn’t remark on her trembling fingers.

When they arrived at Haven, there had been some Tranquil with the Rebellion, enough not to wonder where the rest had gone. She’d thought they were all accounted for, that most had died in the renewed fighting after the Conclave, or been killed by the Venatori. Maker knew she hadn’t asked after them. She’d made it a habit to avoid the very sight of them, if she could help it. 

“They belonged to Tranquil,” she murmured, her voice sounding empty. Her gaze lifted up, pulled by the pile of skulls in the back of the cave. It taunted her, a sick, grotesque, discarded mass of life, another insult to the memory of the mages who’d been sundered, cut off from the Fade.

Who’d been forgotten.

Every white dome, every pair of empty eye sockets, they were all Jonas, staring at her from blank, lifeless eyes.

Anger and self-loathing, white-hot and fierce, surged up in the hollow of her chest, and she lifted her hand without thought.

Silver-green flames and crackling sparks slammed into the pile, smashing and burning them all to dust in a matter of seconds. Her vision went white with the sudden illumination, the whispering grew to an unholy pitch, tearing at her mind, and then it was silent. And the fire died.

How could she have forgotten them?

Hand clenched at her side, nails digging into her palm, she stared at the space until her anger focused into something she could control, something she could use.

“What a tragic waste,” Solas murmured, and she looked back to find him watching her with a knowing empathy and soft eyes, mouth twisted in disgust.

“Do you understand what they were trying to do?” she asked, voice steady as more tears slipped down her cheeks.

“I have never seen this kind of magic, but if this is what they were asking of my friend…” He trailed off, voice growing hard, unfocused, more brittle and biting than she’d ever heard it before. Rage built in his eyes that mirrored her own.

“Can you sense her?”

His jaw clenched, the piece of paper going up in dark green flames in his hand. “Not here. In the Fade, perhaps—”

“I can,” Cole said, voice low, devoid of its usual flitting tone. He sounded like the Cole she’d met in that nightmare future in Redcliffe, the one who had pulled so much hate and pain into his heart, he’d lost himself.

In that moment, the blood-reek of the cave, the lingering void of the Tranquil, their useless, pointless, deaths, something awoke in her—a roaring, single-minded need to tear each and every Venatori’s heart from their chests.

Roslyn waited until Solas and Cole had left the cave, wiped the last tears from her eyes, and followed.

 

~  ✧ ~

 

By the time they found the entrance to the dungeon, it was well past sundown. Cole had led them up through the gorge, snaking along the stream, crawling over boulders and broken trees. The summer night was heavy, thick.

None of them spoke, the thread of anger, purpose, and focused, physical urgency quieting their steps, choking their throats. They moved as one into the underground structure, the sounds of shouting rising toward them up the staircase, coming from the flickering, blazing light ahead.

Roslyn felt the wave of charged air, the aura of violence and fear, before Cole froze. It stopped her in her tracks, sent dread into the pit of her stomach. The anchor splintered with the familiar pull of demonic, not spiritual energy.

Solas pushed past her around the bend, and from his lips came a sound that was half-growl, half-denial, rage and loss bound up in one outpouring of ragged breath.

Roslyn followed his gaze, and saw Wisdom.

Or, what had once been Wisdom.

In the center of a circle of spires stood a pride demon. Huge, roaring, rock caged over bristling, primal lightning. But unlike the pride demons she’d fought countless times over the past year, this one was not laughing. It was screaming.

“The bindings,” Solas was saying, his voice urgent, the edge of panic creeping in. “If we can break the bindings, Wisdom can return to herself. No torture, no contradiction with her purpose.”

Roslyn met his gaze, knowing what shone in her eyes. Demons could not be cured, no matter their previous nature. There was no way to reverse what the Venatori had done.

The soft, hated denial was on her lips, when the wolf surfaced, watching Wisdom’s torment in distress. It pulled her forward, the thread between them going taut with the strength of its plea.

The wolf had come back. It had changed its nature.

“Please,” Solas murmured, pain etched in every line of his face.

Her eyes flashed to the demon, to Wisdom, whose eyes now burned and smoked, but shimmered green, just as they had before.

“Get the bindings,” she said, hand clenching around her sword as she called on her aura, already sparking along her skin. “I’ll take care of the Venatori.”

Relief shattered his expression, and he sagged even as his aura swelled beside hers. “Thank you.”

They moved as one, Cole flitting between them into the shadows on the sides of the hall.

Roslyn launched over railing of the upper level, slamming down with a wave of force that threw three Venatori back. They hadn’t seen her enter, occupied with subduing their captive. Her sword sliced into the back of a mage to her left, a lance of energy spearing through another to her right.

The wolf moved with her, but its focus was bent toward Wisdom, its rage cut by concern and fear. For the first time since binding the anchor, she fought apart from it.

But as the first binding broke, she realized it wasn’t merely distracted, but waiting.

Force slammed into her from behind, lightning arcing over her skin and making her teeth jar. Her barrier took the brunt of the energy, along with the wolf’s power lent to hers, but it pushed her forward into the Venatori she’d been fighting. His dagger cut into her arm before she could restore her sundered barrier.

She cut off her cry with a shout as she kicked the man back and threw him into the air with force. He slammed against the ceiling with a sickening crack, and crumpled to the floor.

The wolf lunged, and she felt a lurch of loss as energy drained from her pool. She turned just in time to see it wrap around Solas before purple lightning rained down on him.

A quick scan of the room confirmed that all of the Venatori were dead, or down, some bleeding out from wicked slashes across their face and chests. Cole flickered in the shadows on the other side of the arcing spires, mouth moving quickly, as if he were whispering.

Wisdom screamed as another binding spire shattered with ice. She threw out her arms with a wave of sheer lightning. Roslyn ducked, raised her barrier, and strained to keep it whole from the assault. Her knees buckled, and she gritted her teeth as she sank to the ground, felt the small dip in Wisdom’s attack, and pushed back.

White threads flew out from her outstretched hand, tinged with green, and wrapped around Wisdom. The spirit raged, snapped the first assault, but for every thread it broke, Roslyn sent another three.

“I’ll hold her,” she shouted, eyes trained on Wisdom as the spirit turned her attention from Solas and Cole on her other side.

The wolf rose, and the green began to outweigh the white. Roslyn felt it shift and lunge, the sudden vertigo nearly breaking her grip on the arcane prison. Her mind doubled, expanded, and she felt the wolf’s thread thrum in her chest.

It was reaching out to Wisdom.

_No_ , she thought in panic, trying to pull it back. If it felt the spirit’s pain, her fury, it might revert to the beast it had been before their binding.

But the thread rang certain, and the wolf surged forward even as it sent a wave of reassurance back to her.

Wisdom screamed, and Roslyn felt the wolf reach out.

A wealth of sensation roared back at her through her connection to the wolf.

Pain. Loss. Fear that echoed into a consciousness which stretched far beyond her own. _I am wrong I am wrong I am_ —

A boy’s voice—Compassion, a considered empathy she has not felt in a long time, telling her to remember who she is.

And then Solas, _Solas_ , flooding her mind with pleas, with affection, with need, drawing on a shared history that felt ageless, timeless. She knew him, but she could not reach him. Even after all this time, all they’d been through together, she could not reach him. The pain was too great.

“ _I will not lose you_ ,” his voice rang in her mind through the fog of confusion and fear. “ _I cannot lose you_.”

Pain everywhere in this violent, ripping world. This broken world. Too bright, too angry.

There was something else. Something old, and new. Something she did not understand. She reached for it, felt something like the primal language of the earth—but there was too much to contend with. 

Chaos. Disconnection. Corruption. 

_Wrong wrong wrong I am wrong_ —

The final binding snapped and the wolf surged back before the absence of command could swallow it whole.

As it came, Roslyn felt something shatter. Not her, she was whole. The wolf was whole.

But Wisdom, shuddering to stillness, shrinking, sinking to the floor as her form shifted and reversed, and began to disintegrate. Pieces of her drifted up like embers in the wind. The spirit’s core sparked and broke apart, and they drifted toward the first thing they could find, the thing that was as close to what she had been before she was dragged into the waking world—the wolf.

Roslyn released her arcane prison, letting the wolf slide back into her, shaking, terrified. She threw up a shield, flooded it with her aura. _It’s all right. You’re fine_. It retreated into her breast, huddling close. 

She caught her breath as Solas sank to his knees in front of his friend, hands empty and shaking as they reached out, brow creased in knowing horror. “ _Atheras, ghilasin ma. Ghil—_ ”

The spirit’s form flickered in and out, a candle’s flame whose wick was nearly burnt to its end.

Solas’s face crumpled.“ _Ir abelas. Lethallin...ir abelas_ ,” he murmured, voice deep with guilt.

Roslyn recognized the elven, but understood none of it, her focus split between cradling the wolf in her breast and the sorrow shining in Solas’s eyes.

“ _Tel’abelas—enasal. Ir tel’him._ ” Her voice broke, a shuddering wrack echoing through the sunken hall as she doubled over. “ _Ar erahm…_ ” She pulled herself upright, more sparks flying up into the air. “ _Tel’suledin._ ” One of her hands, green light fracturing through transparent skin, reached up, cupped his face. “ _Amenal-ma ir’him, lethallin, ma falon._ ”

He placed a hand over hers, his fingers passing through her incorporeal flesh. The muscle in his jaw feathered, and his eyes grew heavy with acceptance. “ _Ar tu himvasal._ ”

Another shudder in her form, and Roslyn felt the wolf keen as light broke off and drifted into the air like smoke and ash.

“ _Mala suledin nadas_ ,” Wisdom murmured, voice vibrating. “ _Ma ghilana mir din’an... Elgar’amen._ ”

Solas’s head dipped, fatigue that went further than pain, than grief, falling over his shoulders. “ _Ma nuvenin, Mirthadra._ ”

A look passed between them, and Roslyn fought the urge to turn away from the sadness in his eyes, the sadness that spread like a physical miasma through the dungeon.

He raised his hands. A brush of his aura swept through the hall, and Wisdom broke apart at last.

“ _Dareth shiral, Atheras_ ,” he whispered as the last of her light faded, and he was left kneeling alone in the center of a broken circle.

Silence fell over them. Over Cole, where he stood still and focused on the empty space in front of Solas. Over Solas, whose eyes peered into a vast, unknowable distance. Over Roslyn, staring at him, wanting to rise and comfort him, but gripped with the frozen uncertainty of what he needed. What he wanted.

In that hovering silence, she felt like a stranger intruding on someone else’s nightmare. She’d thought she knew him, but this… His grief was a dark, unknowable place, a place she couldn’t touch, or imagine. He felt further away that he ever had before, disconnected from anything that might bring him back to her.

The wolf’s sadness flitted through her chest, a sadness that grew and reached into the depths of their connection. She remembered the sorrow she’d witnessed in its eyes back before they were bound. It wasn’t the same, but an echo, a glimpse into its existence of raging emptiness in the life before it took form.

She didn’t know how long they all sat frozen, waiting for Wisdom’s chaotic energy to pass, for a peace that would never come.

A small shudder broke the stillness as Solas shifted, his eyes moving slowly to lock with hers.

Grief, loss, hopelessness hung in their depths—a net cast out, imploring. 

She winced as she got to her feet. She took a step, searching for something she could say to help that wouldn’t sound hollow, before a groan drifted up from a mass of blood-red robes in the corner of the hall. One of the Venatori had survived.

Solas’s eyes cut to the mage, and they went flat. He was gone again.

Cole was there before either she or Solas could move. Dagger out, head tilted down, he hovered over the man as he shifted and tried to turn over.

“Cole, wait,” Roslyn muttered, swallowing back the tangled web of emotions in her throat as she walked toward him.

Solas rose and joined her, his expression set into a hard, violent calm that made unease churn in her stomach. It was a look devoid of mercy, devoid of anything except cold vengeance.

Cole paced back as Solas moved past him, waiting for the mage to turn over. The young man hovered close to Roslyn, gaze split between the mage and Solas.

“Why did you summon her?” Solas asked in a slow, measured voice.

The mage blinked his eyes open, shrank back as his lips trembled in fear. “P-please don’t kill—”

_“Why?”_ he snapped, some of that steely calm fracturing.

Roslyn didn’t flinch at the tone of Solas’ voice, but she watched him closely.

“We needed the shards, but we didn’t know how to find them. The Venatori summoned the demon, not me. They made it tell them how. I swear it wasn’t my idea, I didn’t—” His eyes flitted to Roslyn, widened as they saw her mark. “Herald, thank the Maker. You have to understand. I didn’t chose to join them. They m-made me help. I would have gone with the other rebels—”

“Answer my friend’s question,” she said, meeting the mage’s eyes. He was young, she noticed, younger than her, and a part of her wanted to feel sympathy for him. But her mind was wrapped around Wisdom’s screams, around the pile of Tranquil skulls. “Why did you need the shards?”

His face blanched at her tone. Tears began to stream from his eyes. “I swear I didn’t _know_ , I didn’t know…”

“A door in the earth,” Cole muttered, eyes glazed over as he picked out pieces of thought from the mage’s mind. “Old, very old, hiding an ally to help Coryphea. I know where the Tranquil are. I can find them for the Venatori. They know me. They’ll come with me.” Shadows coalesced around Cole, voice growing sharp, angry. “You brought them here.”

“I didn’t know they would kill them. I didn’t—”

“Where is this door?” Roslyn snapped, rage pounding against her sternum.

“I don’t know, Herald, please, _please_ ,” he spluttered, shaking on the ground. “You have to believe me.”

Solas’s aura swelled, the smell of pine smoke growing acrid and overwhelming as the man was engulfed in dark emerald flames.

The mage’s face was illuminated for one second before his shriek cut off. Roslyn saw his terror in sharp relief, and felt only an echo of regret that she hadn’t been the one to kill him.

She blinked in the dim light, the only illumination in the hall that of her mark and the single torch flickering on the wall.

Silence fell around them again, smelling of burnt flesh and the tang of ozone, of damp, rotting earth and smoke. The walls pushed in on her, and Roslyn fought the urge to slam her fist into the stone.

“We should get out of here,” she murmured, chancing a look at Solas.

His gaze slid to her, to her arm, the cut nearly forgotten in the aftermath of Wisdom's passing. He said nothing, but reached out to take her arm. His touch was soft, gentle, as it always was, as he sent a wave of healing energy into the wound. But as his aura swelled against hers, she felt a ringing emptiness in it. She could taste his grief, his anger, his guilt. It dwarfed her, overwhelmed her, and when he pulled back, the absence was almost worse.

Nothing she could say would help him now.

“We’ll give you a minute.” She took a step back, the tension in his shoulders looking ready to snap if pushed. “Cole,” she murmured when he didn’t follow.

He dragged his gaze from Solas, conflict in his eyes, but left with her, walking without sound through the hall and up into the night air. It was warmer outside, but smelled sweeter, the fresh scent of running water and moss crowding out the lingering taint of the dungeon.

She leaned back against the outer wall, let her eyes close. Regret and pain welled up in her throat. _So much for hope._

“I couldn’t help them.”

She looked at Cole, a pang resonating in her chest at the bitterness in his voice. “The mages?”

“The Tranquil. Wisdom. I couldn’t help anyone.” He shook his head, face twisted in pain. “I can’t help Solas, or you. I can’t help anyone.”

“There was nothing you could have done, Cole,” she murmured, pushing off the wall and gripping his forearm as he started to wring his hands. 

“You’re wrong. I could have made the Venatori suffer.”

“They will,” she promised, a small voice telling her not to encourage him in this vengeance, but she didn’t care. She wanted their blood just as much as he did.

He locked eyes with her, clarity filtering into his expression. “I will help you kill them.”

She nodded and squeezed his arm. “You didn’t get an impression of where this door was, did you?”

He shook his head, calm settling over his body. “The mage didn’t know. Only that it was somewhere hidden. Somewhere he didn’t want to go.”

The image of the door under Redcliffe, the door barring Alexius’s rooms, flashed in her mind. If it was the same, maybe they wouldn’t need any of these shards, wouldn’t need to use those foul oculara. Alexius had had three years to find those doors in the nightmare future, to bring them to Redcliffe. Perhaps this was how he’d done it.

She exhaled in frustration as she realized that Wisdom might have died in that nightmare world as well, for this same purpose. That this might have been inevitable.

The tangled threads of her life circled around her and tightened, her failure threatening to seize her in its grip. Tentatively, she reached in toward that burning certainty she sometimes felt from the winged woman’s presence, but there was nothing. No sign that Andraste was there with her, or even watching.

Six months rebuilding their forces, preparing themselves for the worst, and they still had nothing. They were still scrambling in the dark while people died.

A soft scuff of bare feet sounded as Solas appeared in the dark entrance to the dungeon. She couldn’t see his face, but the aura of tension surrounding him carried its own weight. Made her feel helpless.

“Solas, I…” She trailed off, took a hesitant step toward him. “I’m so sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he murmured, voice coiled tight around pain. “I need some time alone. I will meet you back at Skyhold.”

A pathetic lurch tugged in her chest. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

She bit back her weak words of comfort, her selfish desire to help him, somehow. Concern and fear for his safety, out on his own, died on her tongue. He’d been alone before they met. He could protect himself.

Even if he didn’t have to.

Roslyn unslung her pack and held it out. “I didn’t bring much food, but there should be a few days’ worth.”

He kept his gaze forward, empty. “That is kind of you, Inquisitor, but I do not need it.”

Stupid, feeble panic gripped her, but she shoved it aside. It wasn’t about her, Maker damn her. Her feelings didn’t matter. If he wanted to leave, he could leave. He’d lost someone important. Of course he might need time alone to grieve. To reassess.

“Just take it,” she muttered, swallowing back the lump rising in her throat.

He didn’t look at her, the outline of his face unchanged. But he accepted the pack, slipped it over his shoulder next to his own, and walked away without another word.

Roslyn watched him move down the rocky path beside the river until the outline of his body disappeared into the darkness. She waited until her breathing slowed, until the urge to run after him faded.

“Is he coming back?” she asked Cole, allowing herself one moment of weakness.

He was silent for a long time, every second he hesitated pulling at the growing void in her chest, until he finally murmured, “I don’t know.”


	32. Atonement in Your Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Color In Your Hands" by D.L.i.d.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v7ydU5jQUQY&index=33&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&t=0s)

The Grand Forest Villa bustled with life, packed to the brim with soldiers and scouts, merchants from around the Hinterlands and Redcliffe, farmers bringing food. Missives flew on black raven wings and the mountains hummed in the vibrant summer sun. The Crossroads might manage the bulk of trade in the area, but the Inquisition’s fortress had grown into a waypoint in its own right.

Roslyn stood on the northwest tower, fingers brushing absently against her shoulder where an arrow had pierced her skin in this very spot over a year ago. She grimaced with the memory of pain, the reminder of how close she’d been to losing control.

Of who had held her back from the abyss, and healed her.

She refocused her attention on the field below, covered in tents and wagons and training rings. The clash of steel and shouts blanketed the area in a familiar, comforting buzz. Rylen had done a lot in six months, more than she’d expected. It wasn’t close to the numbers they had in Skyhold, but it was enough to start.

Energy brushed past her skin, and she smiled at the warning.

“One of the cooks is yelling at a boy for dumping sugar into the stew,” Cole murmured, stepping close and looking out at the field with her. “It isn’t his fault she didn’t label them correctly.”

“The joys of working in a kitchen,” she mused, rolling out some of the fatigue from her shoulders.

She hadn’t slept well. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Solas’s grief etched in hard lines over his face, in his shaking hands. She heard Wisdom’s screams. Bleached skulls floated around her with rictus grins, flashes of white-blue stone crowding the edges of her vision.

“I’m going back to Skyhold this afternoon,” she said forcefully. “Would you like to join me?”

“Yes.” The young man stared, eyes reflecting the color of the sky. His gaze probed at her, in vain, it seemed, as a line creased his brow.

“If you have a question, Cole, you can ask,” she said, smile tugging at her lips.

“Why did you cry when you saw the Tranquil?”

The question hit her in the gut, and she nearly winced in surprise. I should have known this was coming.

He’d watched her closely on their way back to the Grand Forest Villa, said nothing when she excused herself as the first hint of dawn painted the clouds red and pink. She had gone to the ring of standing stones outside Lady Shayna’s Valley, had sat for an hour as the sun rose, waiting for a sign from Andraste, and all the while she’d felt his gaze. But he’d made no mention of her futile vigil, not when she’d returned to find him hovering in the shadow of the gate, holding his hat in his hands.

She found her voice through the knot in her throat. “It reminded me of someone I lost a long time ago.”

“When you lived in the tower?”

She nodded. “I fell in love with a boy, and they made him Tranquil.”

His eyes widened, recognition flashing in their bright depths. “Mages can’t fall in love. They weren’t allowed. I…remember.”

Her echoing pain dimmed as she frowned. “What do you mean?”

“They couldn’t love in the White Spire either.” His voice was soft, halting, as if the memory was unfurling in front of him as he spoke. “I never had the chance to break that rule. Shoved in a dark hole, a cell until they could figure out what to do with me. The templars didn’t care. No one cared. I was forgotten. Alone… I died there.”

Realization pulled ice over her chest. “You were a mage,” she whispered, frozen as she watched the boy, the spirit, grapple with the truth.

His expression flickered, but his eyes clarified. Pain rose up in them and he said, slowly, “Yes.”

The Ghost of the White Spire.

She’d heard the stories from a few in the Rebellion. Adrian had talked about the demon who’d stalked her tower, who had tried to trick her friends and taken the guise of a hedge mage. Roslyn had written it off as a fanciful story, fueled by fear and a desire to prop herself up as more interesting than she was—she hadn’t liked the woman.

But knowing what Cole could do, seeing him disappear into the shadows, remove memories from people’s minds… It could only be him.

“Cole…” Her hands clenched. She didn’t know whether to hug him or leave him be, but her heart ached.

A familiar anger curled in her stomach at the knowledge that the templars had let him die, alone and forgotten in a cell. Her own templars had been indifferent, some of them even cruel, but they’d never let anyone die in such a callous way.

Or perhaps they had, and she simply hadn’t heard of it.

“I didn’t remember,” he muttered, shaking his head, the brim of his hat dipping over his face. “I made myself forget.” His eyes refocused on her, and she almost felt the direction of his mind shift as he said, “You saved the templars, after Envy tried to break you.”

His voice was measured, not the hard, angry thing from last night, but she felt his accusation all the same.

Guilt, festering and raw, swallowed her anger and turned it to bile in her throat. “I did.”

“Why?”

She had a hard time keeping herself present rather than falling back into that dark pocket of the Fade where they’d met. The words caught, and she considered the young man in front of her, wondered if he could indeed see into her mind. “I was afraid.”

“Why?” he asked again, voice still calm, soft.

Her jaw clenched and she looked away, hating the admission, hating how that fear was still lodged in the back of her mind with Envy’s words— _Make them pay for what they did to you_. It had been smoothed down, like a pebble. It no longer bit and cut along its jagged edges, but it was present nonetheless, there every time she pulled her courage up and wore it like a mantle.

The wolf, which had been uncharacteristically silent all morning, brushed a comforting touch against her mind.

It was a small fear, borne from a girl who’d spent too long hiding in shadows and hating herself. She didn’t want it anymore, and yet…

“Because I didn’t want to be what they thought I was,” she murmured. “If I saved them, if I forgot my own hatred, I would be better than they were. I thought that’s what strength was. Now… Now I am not so sure.”

He said nothing. The sounds of the fortress had grown soft, distant, the tower they stood on blanketed by some kind of hush. Probably Cole’s doing, even in the wake of his own trauma.

_Compassion_. Wisdom had recognized him for who he was right away.

She took a deep breath, pulling herself out of her own thoughts, and gripped his forearm. “There’s nothing I can say to make what happened to you better, but…I’m so sorry.”

His eyes widened in confusion, but he didn’t pull away, waiting.

“You can never forget something like that,” she murmured, “not forever, not even you. And you shouldn’t. You can’t forget, because if you do, it will happen again to someone else.” Her voice shook as she went on, “But you have to let it go.”

“Have you let it go?”

“I keep thinking I have.” She smiled weakly. “I’m starting to wonder if it’s even possible.” Tipping the brim of his hat back, she studied his face, hating how young he looked, and how haunted. “The point is that people change. I don’t forgive, and I don’t forget, but we owe it to ourselves to let the good ones try to be better.”

“And the bad ones?”

“The bad ones, we kill.”

Understanding passed behind his eyes, the beginnings of a thought, and he slowly tilted his head. “That’s why you became Inquisitor.”

Her smile turned hard. “One of the reasons.”

She pulled him into a loose hug, his lanky, bony body freezing only for a moment before he patted her on the back. “This still feels strange.”

Laughter broke through her tense lips and she stepped back. “Sorry.”

“I didn’t say it felt bad,” he murmured.

She closed her eyes, trying not to let her guilt rise and spoil the moment. Her time had been consumed by so many mundane concerns the past six months, playing politician and steward to an Inquisition struggling for recognition and power. It had been too easy to forget where she came from, how she’d felt in those early months as their Herald. She hated that it had taken a spirit’s death, and the deaths of all those Tranquil, to remind her.

“Can I make a request?” she asked, giving Cole a pointed look. “Don’t disappear on me for the journey back.”

He frowned, the expression so disgruntled she had to fight a grin. “You want me to ride a horse?”

“Spirits can’t ride horses?”

“No, they can. They just don’t need to.” He sighed, and nodded, and disappeared into a cloud of smoke.

Roslyn stared at the space he’d occupied for a long time, thoughts pooling in her mind like skeins of thread. Her fear rose, solidified, but she didn’t shove it away. She let it hang in her mind as the fortress hummed with life around her. She turned it over, considered it like she would a blade, saw the flaws in its metal and dents in its grip.

She didn’t let it go, she hadn’t been lying about that, but she set it aside for now, remembering her justification for so many things over the past year—that she didn’t have the luxury of holding on to old prejudices. No matter how valid they might be.

But there was a difference between letting something go and forgetting it.

 

~  ✧ ~

 

They returned to Skyhold two days later, setting a brisk pace, but not pushing themselves too hard. Roslyn walked into the main gate and forced herself not to scan for a measured gait and familiar aura, for simple woolen clothes and intent blue eyes, to keep her mind focused, and clear.

Solas would come back in his own time.

Or he wouldn’t, and there was nothing she could do to change his mind.

The thought carried her forward as she moved through the keep without stopping to visit with the few members of her inner circle she passed, and convened her council.

Cullen and Josephine didn’t comment on her absence, though their curious stares told her they’d been informed by Leliana of her reason for leaving. She apologized, and her lack of explanation was answer enough as to why Solas hadn’t come back with her. They latched onto the information of the Venatori’s plans with enthusiasm, though none of them had any idea what a door in the earth meant beyond her own suspicions about Alexius’s involvement.

Nerves rolled through her, but she kept her voice cool, detached. She didn’t let their curiosity and concern pull her from the idea which had taken shape in her mind over the journey back.

When the meeting was over, and they had dismissed themselves, she said, calmly, “Leliana, a word?”

Josephine glanced between them. She held her tongue, but there was a rigidity in her shoulders that hadn’t been present before.

Cullen left without argument, the circles under his eyes more prominent, the bowed tension in his shoulders speaking to his silent fatigue. The effects of the lyrium withdrawal must be wearing on him, but he was just as sharp, just as solid. _Another day_. She would make sure he was all right another day.

Leliana waited with interest, her hood pulled down and hands clasped gently in front of her, as Roslyn closed the door after the other two.

She wasted no time, facing her spymaster with as much confidence as she could muster. “Do you remember what you said to me the day I became Inquisitor?”

Her eyes were steady, bright as her expression remained purposefully cool. “I said many things to you, if I recall.”

“Yes, and I’m going to pay you back for the etiquette lessons one day.”

Leliana’s mouth twitched.

“Change,” Roslyn murmured, looking down at the map stretched over the war table, _her_ war table, running her finger along Ostwick’s coastline, imagining the shape of the Emerald Cove and the tower which stood further inland. “You said I was ashamed for wanting change, but you were wrong.”

She looked up, locked eyes with her spymaster. “I was afraid.” _I still am_ , she echoed the admission to Cole in her mind, keeping her voice level, firm.

“Fear is a powerful thing,” Leliana mused, tilting her head ever so slightly to the side, as if sizing her up.

Roslyn straightened, folded her arms. “Does your offer of help still stand?”

Light clicked in Leliana’s eyes, and the beginnings of a smile pulled at her lips. It wasn’t joy or relief that transformed her features, but anticipation. “It does.”

“Good. I understand what you were trying to do with Commander Helaine, but I’m not going to play the Chantry’s puppet. Not as it stands now. Maybe, when it falls closer to my, and the Inquisition’s beliefs, but not today.”

Leliana inclined her head, pulling her hands behind her back as she considered. “The Chantry is old, rooted in its ways. You might have no other choice than to dance to its song.”

“True, but I won’t be a passive partner. And I would not be opposed to changing that song.” She hesitated, not wanting to offend the woman. Leliana was borne from the Chantry and loved it with a passion that ran deep—anyone could see that. How much change would she accept? “I’d like to start integrating the templars more fully into our forces. The troops at the Grand Forest Villa are green, but enthusiastic, and I think having the knights there might encourage them to greater heights.”

“I am sure the Knight Commander would understand,” Leliana said, eyes calculating, “if you were to broach the topic. Josephine was trying to engage Cullen in the matter of uniforms and armor the other day. I think it would not be amiss to ensure the knights wear the same colors as the rest of our soldiers. For unity, of course.”

“Of course.”

Now that she was voicing her idea, Roslyn felt the air grow taut, as if she were crossing a threshold or breaking a promise. She’d given the templars their autonomy, but they had pledged themselves to her in return. The line was a murky one, and the more she played alongside it, the more aware she became of her own body, her words. The more an iron rod made her spine straighten in discomfort.

“I also think the mages should be more visible,” she pressed on. “They should work more closely with the restoration efforts in Ferelden. We’ve pulled them all back for their own safety, but the Bannorn is still struggling to get back on its feet. I saw that much on my trip around Lake Calenhad. It might do the people good to have mages who can heal their wounds, rebuild their houses, protect them from greater threats than bears.”

“Indeed. If the mages want to prove they are worthy of the freedom you gave them, perhaps they should start now. With our help.”

Roslyn nodded. “I’ll talk to Fiona. I think she might be interested in lending some support now that the Rebellion has nothing to rebel against.”

Leliana’s eyes cut through her like light through a pane of glass. “Where did this fervor come from, if I might ask?”

The pile of bleached skulls swam before Roslyn’s mind, the spiral sun branded to her thoughts. “The last few months have muddied my priorities. I was served a harsh reminder of where I came from in the Hinterlands.”

Silence stretched between them as Leliana’s smile faded. “You knew someone who was made Tranquil.”

“I knew many people who were made Tranquil.” Roslyn exhaled to dislodge the tension in her chest. “One person in particular,” she added softly, not knowing whether it was the kindness in Leliana’s eyes or her own guilt dragging up honesty.

“The Chantry has failed your people, Inquisitor,” Leliana murmured. “I am sorry.”

“You’d take the full blame on yourself?” Roslyn forced a grin to her lips. “How magnanimous of you.”

The bright blue of her eyes turned sharp, biting, not directed at Roslyn, but at something else, something more intangible than one person. “Someone should start taking the blame. If no one does, change will remain a noble ideal we hold only in our hearts to make ourselves feel superior.”

Her certainty was catching, and Roslyn felt the beginnings of it take shape in her own mind. “It is a candle’s flame which sheds radiant light when the sun has faded,” she murmured, pulling out a line from the Canticle of Transfigurations.

“And even those who have wasted away in darkness are drawn to her fire,” Leliana finished, amusement pulling at her lips. “For someone committed to distancing herself from the Chantry, you play the part of a dutiful savior well.”

“Maybe I’m a very good actress.”

“Maybe,” she allowed, opening the door and waiting for Roslyn to leave before her. “But I pride myself on being an accurate judge of character, and I think you’re far too stubborn for subterfuge.”

Roslyn laughed as she stepped from the war room with sharper eyes. She felt as if she’d just jumped into a cold lake, refreshed, shaky, and alert, with a focus that startled her. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.”

“Perhaps both,” Leliana mused, following her out.

 

~  ✧ ~

 

The moment Roslyn stepped inside the mage’s tower, she felt as if she’d been thrown back through time.

It smelled of fresh parchment and ink, of potted herbs and the buzzing tang of magic. Auras brushed against her, and it might have been suffocating if not for the wolf’s assistance in piecing them out, segmenting them into manageable flashes of sensation. Lowered voices murmured all around her, and she fought the urge to round her shoulders, to sink into a heavy trudge and let her mouth grow sullen.

There was a reason she’d done her best to avoid the Rebellion’s headquarters so far. It reminded her too keenly of Aiden’s Tower. It made her want to feel small, and angry, as if the mere impression of the place had erased the past five years of her life.

She did her best to compensate with a polite smile and a calm expression as she wove through the mages. Most of them hid their surprise well, but some ogled her.

_You’d never know I used to be one of them from the way they look at me,_ she thought to the wolf.

It considered her, a strange solemnity passing between them that felt like wry acceptance. As if it said, _Were you ever, though?_

She blinked away the strength of the sudden understanding as she caught sight of Fiona standing in the back of the crowded lower room, holding congress with a few of her senior enchanters.

Their eyes caught, and Roslyn almost smiled at the affection that filtered into her old mentor’s eyes. 

“My lady,” she said with a bowed head, only causing Roslyn a bit of discomfort. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“I thought I’d come see the newly renovated tower for myself.” She nodded at the two men standing next to the Grand Enchanter. “Jacin. Lowell.”

The former bristled at her informality, earning her a slight smile from Fiona, while the latter merely inclined his balding head. “Welcome, Inquisitor.” Intent danced in his watery eyes. “Your arrival is opportune, for there is a matter—”

“If this matter affects the Inquisition, you are more than welcome to bring it to my steward, so I can give it the consideration it deserves rather than a hasty decision now.” She smiled and held the old man’s gaze as his expression soured. “But if this is a matter for the Rebellion, the woman you should beseech is standing next to you.”

The two men went red with anger, and Fiona stepped forward. “I’ll give your proposal some thought, my friend. Right now, I would like to visit with my former second. Perhaps you should walk the ramparts,” she added, sliding into place beside Roslyn, “I hear the mountain air is good for one’s health.”

Roslyn hid her snort behind a cough as she followed the Grand Enchanter to her study at the top of the tower.

Fiona kept tidy quarters, her few personal belongings tucked into a small, sturdy chest sitting at the base of her bed, which she had brought with her to every erstwhile home she’d had since Roslyn had met her. Her desk was clean and her window was open to the setting sun, a pleasant breeze ruffling the vase of golden flowers Roslyn recognized from the gardens below.

“Careful,” Fiona murmured as she closed the door, “or you might cause my aging colleagues’ hearts to stop in their disapproval.”

“Like you don’t want them to conveniently tip over the battlements.”

Fiona’s brow lifted. “I would never wish any harm to come to friends, not even as they try to undermine my authority in front of my own face.”

Roslyn eased back against the desk as Fiona faced her. The elf didn’t wear her Circle robes anymore, but a finely tailored pair of leather pants and navy tunic. It made her look younger, less untouchable than before, though the steel shone in her hazel-green eyes just the same.

“Are they giving you trouble?”

“No more than they always have. They wanted to leave you after Haven, you know. Claimed you were dragging us into a holy war we weren’t ready to fight, forcing us to cooperate with templars and fight your battles for you.”

Roslyn cocked one brow, the sting of gossip a small, irritating wound. “I sound downright tyrannical.”

“Fear does strange things to some people,” Fiona mused, her eyes taking Roslyn in with an expectant patience.

She’d long since stopped hoping for Fiona’s approval, the pain from last year faded, if present. She was, technically, Fiona’s superior now. But there was an awareness that washed over her in her presence, a lingering desire to prove worthy of that expectation. The shift in power was still unsteady, and she found herself searching for solid ground in the eyes she’d once modeled herself after, and hoped one day to gain half as much composure as shined in their strength.

“Do you know what happened to the Tranquil when you allied with the Venatori?” she started, trying not to let accusation filter into her voice. They were all to blame for the horror she’d seen in that cave, not just Fiona.

Shadows formed in Fiona’s eyes, and a heavy, knowing weight fell over her shoulders. “They were among the first to be taken.”

Roslyn’s jaw clenched. She’d thought as much, if the Venatori needed so many of them for their oculara. With a slow, forced tone, she recounted what she’d found in the Hinterlands, hardening herself to Fiona’s controlled horror, the brittle tension in her expression.

To her shock, tears surfaced in Fiona’s eyes, though she pulled them back just as quickly. She crossed to the window, stared out in silence as she took a deep breath, set her shoulders again.

Roslyn waited, watching her former mentor compose herself with an uncomfortable empathy. So much of her being had been forged from watching this woman face the hard world with an iron gaze. It was disconcerting to see it now with a clearer eye, to see the places where she’d taken and pieced herself together in Fiona’s image.

“I should have known,” Fiona murmured, the small tremor in her voice the last sign of her distress. “I was a fool to think us out of the woods.”

“I think the woods are all that’s left,” Roslyn said. “I know you brought a few Tranquil with you, but…”

“Minaeve has taken over their care.” Fiona’s jaw clenched. “But I shall personally see to it that they are treated well, Inquisitor.” She met her gaze firmly. “This is my mistake. I will do everything in my power to try and make up for it.”

Roslyn swallowed her denial—that she was just as much as fault as anyone else, that she should have been paying closer attention. She murmured, “I wanted you to hear it from me first.”

Fiona shook her head, eyes distant. “I do not deserve such kindness from you, Roslyn.”

“You do,” she said at once. “You always will.” She straightened and looked away from the guilt and warmth in Fiona’s surprise. “I also wondered if you would be opposed to lending the Inquisition a few of your more personable charges for a…somewhat unorthodox initiative. I think it’s time for the people of Thedas to see that mages aren’t monsters who lurk in towers and the wilds.”

Fiona considered her, a lingering softness in the tilt of her mouth. “And how would you turn their distrust?”

“Rebuild Ferelden—Orlais too, if they let us help. The rifts aren’t the only problem in Thedas, just the flashiest. I would help redirect the Rebellion into something that mends, rather than something that breaks.”

“And when the Chantry claps our mending hands in irons once more?”

“It won’t,” Roslyn said firmly. “The Chantry is divided, its remaining leaders misguided. It’s biting its own tail in an attempt to gain some semblance of power and has been for a long time. Justinia’s death only fueled that madness.”

“Preserving the templars suggests otherwise.”

Roslyn took the barbed reminder, but held Fiona’s gaze. “The templars broke from the Chantry, the same as the mages.”

Fiona frowned, the smallest hint of sympathy in her creased brow. “They are loyal dogs, who like the lead and kennel the Chantry provides. They will go back. They will always go back.”

“Not if they already have a place in the Inquisition.” Roslyn swallowed her discomfort at speaking about the templars like they were mindless animals. She knew enough of them now to see their reasons, their version of what passed for honor—their lyrium leash binding them to the Chantry. It excused nothing, but it did explain, and that explanation could be valuable if exploited carefully.

_I sound like Vivienne._ She forced the thought aside, waiting for Fiona’s reaction.

The Grand Enchanter studied her for a long time, her gaze impassive, her expression blank. “You offered them clemency.”

“I offered them an alliance. The same alliance I offered you.”

Her brow quirked, the beginnings of iron creeping into her voice. “And should I worry about that alliance being used against me?”

The words hit her chest, bouncing with a hollow echo against her sternum. She’d expected doubt—for all Fiona’s talk of reticence and admiring her actions as Inquisitor, it would be stupid to accept Roslyn’s word without question. Fiona had not risen to the rank of Grand Enchanter by relying on faith and fondness.

But it hurt, nonetheless, and the young woman who still craved her approval cowed in the face of that steely gaze.

The Inquisitor, the _Herald_ , did not.

“I made a mistake,” Roslyn said slowly. “I won’t apologize for it, and I think it was the only choice I could have made in that moment, but it was a mistake. While I still have the opportunity, I would like to correct it.”

Fiona’s head tilted to the side, a strange light in her eyes.

“You don’t believe me?” The words came out harder than she intended, but she held her ground, trying not to clench her fist when the wolf shifted in awareness of her struggle.

“I have been waiting for four years for you to look at me like you are now.” Fiona didn’t smile, but pride rang in her voice, and it took Roslyn by surprise. “I believe you, my dear. And I am ready to help you in whatever capacity I can.”

Roslyn blinked, feeling as if the ground had just shifted under her feet, but not in an unpleasant way. “Well. Good. I have a few ideas about who might fit what I have in mind.”

“Master Harper,” Fiona said without hesitation.

“Derek is first on my list.” Roslyn grinned. “Though I’m glad it’s not just me playing favorites. Also, there’s a healer who came from Kirkwall. Cath Surana. She seems…confident, used to dealing with people who don’t want to deal with her.”

“There are a few others I would choose. Some not of the Rebellion, as if the common people will see the difference.”

“About the Rebellion,” Roslyn said, adopting a lighter, gentler tone, “have you thought about choosing a new name to call yourselves?”

Fiona’s laugh was sharp, rueful. “And here I thought you would stand with me against my senior enchanters.”

“I’m not sure it’s the message you want to send right now.”

“I have thought about it,” Fiona smiled grimly, “though I admit, I am partial to my Rebellion.”

“So was I.” Roslyn matched her smile. “It’s a powerful statement in a time of war.”

“And have we left that time? If so, your idea of peace is lacking.”

She laughed, nodded in agreement. “It is. We seem to have tumbled out of one war and into another.”

“War is and always will be a chimera,” Fiona mused. “It might change its shape, but its heart beats with the same hunger and malice.”

They settled into a steady silence, Roslyn reminded of saying goodbye before leaving for the Conclave as she’d stood beside the Grand Enchanter and looked out over the Blasted Hills. _Control, autonomy_ —Fiona had told her these were the only things worth fighting for, that morals were made for women with harder hearts and rounder ears. She was right, in a way, but fighting at the expense of one’s morals was also wrong.

Roslyn didn’t know if she could have both, but she would try.

“What?” Roslyn asked as Fiona’s smile grew, a curious light in her eyes that Roslyn hadn’t seen before.

The Grand Enchanter took her time, stepping close and raising her hand hesitantly to cup Roslyn’s cheek with a sad smile.

She froze as a confusing knot of emotions rose in her throat. She stared down at the woman who was the closest thing she’d ever had for a mother, and tried to keep herself from wanting more.

“It was Andraste’s edict that plunged the mages into a millennia of servitude and oppression,” she murmured, dropping her hand quickly as color rose in her cheeks. Roslyn watched it in shock. In nearly four years of knowing her, she’d never seen Fiona blush. She hadn’t known the woman was capable of it. “I think it fitting that her Herald will lead them back to freedom.”

She softened, but followed Fiona’s lead as she launched into discussions of who would be best suited to presenting a new and trustworthy front to the people of Thedas.

 

~  ✧ ~

 

That night, after she’d met with Derek and told him of what she’d found in that cave, and sat in silence with him as they both remembered a friend taken too early by the fears of templars, she slipped into the Fade, and waited.

Just as she had waited the last three nights. The wolf sat with her on a mountain overlooking Skyhold. Drifts of snow swirled around them as the brilliant kaleidoscope of the night sky shone bright and true. She leaned into its side, her awareness thrown out for some sign of Solas. The warmth of its silent comfort was almost enough to quell the anxiety in the back of her mind.

“Did you take a piece of her?” she asked, not really wanting to hear the answer. “When you tried to help, did Wisdom…break off into you?”

The wolf shifted, resting its snout on top of her head. The connection between them was bright. She lifted a hand in the air and willed a line of silver light stretching from her heart to its chest, a visual reminder that it was still there, still present.

Amusement filtered through it as the wolf huffed. But it didn’t answer, and for the first time since nearly dying in Haven, she felt the faint brush of its aura. Subtle at first, but more evident the longer she sat. It was darker than hers, larger, but it sparked with a sweetness that felt familiar, bells chiming on a strong wind, carried away before she could pick out their tune.

She looked down at her left hand as her right clenched in its fur. The anchor glimmered softly. She saw no sign that it was fading. It looked the same as it always had.

“Don’t leave,” she whispered, staring at her palm, unable to voice more than that one, singular plea. “Don’t leave me”

The wolf lowered to the ground and curled around her, and she let its warmth hold her fears at bay.


	33. Leave Me Hanging

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Wasting My Young Years" by London Grammar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pkeDBwsIaZw&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&t=0s&index=35)

Roslyn stepped into the antechamber to her rooms only to find Derek leaning beside the door, resembling a poor excuse for a nonchalant mop. 

“You know that I have people guarding me now,” she said flatly, shutting her door and brushing past him to the stairwell leading down to the great hall. “Loitering outside my rooms could put someone in the mind that you were spying on me.”

His face scrunched in annoyance above her. “I’m not that stupid.”

She only hummed in response, hiding her smile. 

“If I were a spy, Sister Nightingale would have had me plucked and roasted already.” He shivered at the thought. “Or hung me from the rafters of that drafty tower she’s got herself perched up in for her birds to peck—”

“Are you insulting my spymaster, Derek Harper?”

He startled, looking around at the people milling about the great hall, as if Leliana might jump out from behind one of the tapestries with a knife aimed for his heart. “Of course not. I would never. I’m sure your spymaster is a lovely woman, fully capable of having me killed just by snapping her fingers. I would be a fool to suggest she is anything other than spectacular.”

Roslyn kept her smile firmly fixed as she led her gangly friend out into the morning sun, forcing herself not to peer into the rotunda. There was a third mural now on the far wall, the hints of which tugged at the corner of her vision, but she had purposefully avoided it. She didn’t want to see whatever Solas had been working on before he’d left. There was no one in there, all signs of its occupant left untouched, as if the keep’s servants were afraid to disturb Solas’s things. As if by unsettling even one bit of his space, it would make his absence real. If she didn’t look in and see the emptiness he’d left in his wake, if no one touched anything, she could hold onto the illusion that he was still coming back.

Two weeks he’d been gone. Two weeks which felt like a lifetime. She’d grown so used to pretending the lack of him didn’t hurt. 

The upper courtyard was already in motion, breaking her from the shadowed recesses of her mind. The eager sounds and smells of the Inquisition rallied her, reminded her that she had more important things to consider today. The full onslaught of summer in the mountains had seen the usually bright greenery in the upper courtyard flourish, sprouting colorful blossoms in the trees and drawing out bees who must have been lured here and sustained by the magic shielding Skyhold. Wildflowers gathered in the corners of the stone walls. _Probably tended by Cole_ , she thought with a genuine smile. She could almost imagine she walked through the Ferelden countryside, the smells reminiscent of a simpler time. It was a small comfort, but she took it just the same. 

After a week of discussion and planning with her advisors and Fiona, she had finally settled on the teams to be sent out to begin relieving the Bannorn. Led by mages, supported by Inquisition soldiers and templars, they would begin the long, tiresome work toward _true_ mage freedom, freedom upheld by something other than violence and threats. 

If Thedas could see that mages were not monsters, but people just like them, people who were willing to help their fellow man, and to work for their place, maybe the Inquisition could do more than simply fix the world. They might be able to heal it. 

_Magic exists to serve man, not rule over him_. 

There had to be something in the middle. She had to try. 

“I’m surprised you’re up this early,” Roslyn mused, eyeing Derek as he stretched and ran a hand through his unruly brown hair. The dark bags under his eyes were more pronounced than usual, and she felt a stab of guilt for putting so much pressure on him. 

“I didn’t think I had a choice.”

She frowned. “Of course you—” She stopped when she saw the shit-eating grin on his face. “Watch it.”

“Rosie,” he sighed, “I’m more than happy to lead your special little…attitude rehabilitation groups. You know I am. Though we might want to call them something a bit more catchy if people are going to take us seriously.”

“You’re more than welcome to call yourselves whatever you like, though I imagine it will be difficult to think when you’re suffering from a traumatic head injury after I punch you for calling me that _stupid_ nickname again.”

“Trouble in the ranks already,” he murmured, voice low and mockingly grave. “My gracious, my goodness, she can manage negotiating peace between the mages and templars but when it comes to intimate friends—”

“You _wish_ it was intimate.”

He snorted, dropping the act. “Once upon a time, maybe, but now that you’re _holy_ I wouldn’t enjoy the attention, thanks. Woe befall the person who steps into that place.”

Her step faltered before she forced herself to keep walking. She kept her expression clear, but the words seemed to burrow inside her, digging into the fragile part of her that still hated the notoriety which came with being the Inquisitor, as if it were impossible for her to even entertain the notion of a normal life. A life with something so simple as a relationship. 

_You knew this_ , she told herself, forcing herself to smile and nod at the upheld hands of the workers and merchants, the stablehands and servants, the calls of _Herald_ or _Inquisitor_ or _your worship_. Every one of them hit her like a shard of ice, breaking the easy comfort of the warm summer air. 

If the wolf noticed her discomfort, it didn’t acknowledge it. It was removed from her, keeping to itself, doing whatever it did while she was awake and trapped in her waking mind.

“Was there a reason you were waiting outside my rooms?” she asked, needing to change the subject and distract herself. 

Derek had been watching her, a knowing concern in his eyes. He stopped once they were out of the main fortress, on the staircase down to the lower fields where the army was camped. They were alone, standing in the warm, Solace sunlight, the full brilliance of summer touching the Frostback Mountains with a vitality that now felt wrong to her, as if Skyhold’s very existence was a needling reminder of the person who had led her here.

Her friend crossed his arms, rocking back and forth on his feet like he used to do when he was a teenager, before he’d grown into his limbs. “Is… _he_ not coming back, then?”

Roslyn held his gaze, hating the way her stomach tightened at the mere mention of Solas. 

Everyone had toed lightly around her the past week. Even Cassandra had dropped the subject after a brief, worried question over Solas’s whereabouts. She’d been happy to convey a severe disinterest in speaking about his absence after Roslyn’s firm refusal to say anything more than the barest essentials had gotten her nowhere. So far, everyone else had followed her lead. If some of them seemed to be nervous about mentioning him in her presence, well, she had done nothing to discourage them.

“Is _who_ not coming back?” she hedged.

Derek’s eyes narrowed. “Would you like me to lay it all out in the open? I’d be more than willing to talk about—”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” _Fuck._ Her jaw clenched. “I hadn’t realized you two were such bosom friends to be concerned about—” She frowned. “Have you even _met_ him?”

“The world does continue to exist after you’ve walked away and forgotten about the rest of us, you know,” he said, his sour tone not reaching his eyes, which were still bright and wide and abominably frank. “Not that it was easy, mind. This elven hermit of yours seems to be even less willing to talk about himself than you are. Congratulations, I didn’t think it was—” 

“What did you do?” she asked at once, alarm breaking through her discomfort. “Derek Harper, if you made an ass of yourself—”

“Settle down, please,” he said, scowling. “Maker’s balls, you’d think I had the brain of a druffalo.” He considered her, expression smoothing at something he found in her eyes. “He came to say hello once, a month or so after we got here, to see how the mages were settling in. Fiona showed him around and I tagged along. He seems… _smart_. Bit of an ass.”

She had the odd sensation of the world spinning the wrong way as she tried to reconcile the idea. Solas had gone to Fiona of his own accord. Were they friends? Solas had mentioned helping the remnants of the Rebellion settle in before…

Stopping herself from traveling down that trail of thought, she cleared her throat. “He is. On both counts.”

“And you two are involved?”

_Andraste’s tits_. She took a deep breath. “If you want to get out of leading this relief effort, you’re going to have to try harder to make me uncomfortable.”

Derek smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t want to talk about it? Fine, but I can tell it’s bothering you.”

She glared at him. “There are a lot of things bothering me these days.”

The absence of any news from Coryphea and what she was planning next, the tensions in Orlais threatening to spill over the Frostbacks and destabilize the tenuous peace the Inquisition had managed to cultivate in Ferelden, her own attempt to hold onto some shred of herself as the Inquisition demanded more and more of her time, and this new enterprise, which had a high possibility of failure and which might lead to the deaths of innocent mages and more hostility from the people of Thedas. 

The skulls of the Tranquil she’d forgotten to care about that still swam at the back of her mind when she stopped moving for even a few minutes. The wolf growing distant and foreign. The weight of the amulet pressed against her collar bone. Wisdom’s death. 

Solas. Where he was. What he was feeling. 

If he would ever come back.

“I know there are,” Derek murmured, edging closer and looking as if he didn’t know whether or not he should comfort her. “That’s why I’m being nosy and making you talk about some of it.”

“Maker, is it that obvious?” she murmured, knowing from experience that Derek would not stop until he’d wrested some kind of answer from her. 

“Probably not. Like you said, you’ve got a lot on your mind. You’re the fucking Inquisitor. You’re bound to be a little stressed out.” He shrugged. “But I know you, Roslyn.” He dropped her gaze, his face carefully neutral as he scuffed his boot on the stairs. “And that delightful Seeker you’ve managed to trick into liking you might have hinted to me there was something else going on and that I might—”

“Oh, _fuck_ you,” she said, brushing past him and setting out toward the training fields. _And fuck her_ , she thought, though it lacked any real anger. Of course Cassandra was confused. The last time they’d really spoken, she was tearing up at the mere sight of that damn mural in her room. The mural she’d considered throwing a sheet over, if it wouldn’t attract more attention and questions. 

“Come on,” Derek called, catching up quickly and pulling her back. “What do you expect me to do? It’s not like you and I talk much anymore. I have to ambush you or I won’t get a word in with all your other responsibilities these days.”

That brought her up short. She only eased her arm out of his grip rather than jerking it away.“I’m sorry,” she muttered, “I had forgotten about all our late night bonding sessions back before the Conclave, where you and I braided each other’s hair and talked about our love lives.”

Anger flickered over his tanned, freckled face. “You’re fucking impossible to care about sometimes, you know that? You don’t have to constantly stab back at anyone who tries to _help_.” He shook his head. “Maker’s breath, Roslyn.” A great sigh released through his lips. “I just meant that I’m here, if you need to talk.” He held up a hand to stop her, smiling thinly. “I know, you don’t need to talk. But I’ve offered.”

He turned from her, something defeated in the slump of his shoulders. It pricked at her, making her anger seem petty and foreign. _Did_ she need to talk about this? Her first instinct was to disconnect and isolate, to protect herself from untangling the emotions choking her every thought and breath. 

Unbidden, Isahn’s voice came to her, asking her what she thought would happen to her if she channelled all that magic through her own body alone. That one day, she would break. 

“Derek, wait,” she called, stopping him before he’d gone more than a few steps. Her voice wavered, and she fought the urge to walk past him, to take everything she was feeling and shove it down deep inside. “I don’t know how to do this,” she said, giving voice to her struggle because she had no other way to begin. Her voice came out sharp and breathy, the words forced out of her. “And there’s nothing to talk about, honestly, it’s just…”

What could she say? That the man she irrationally cared for had left after the death of his closest, and to her knowledge, _only_ friend? That she hated herself for devoting so much energy to wanting him back when the world hovered on the edge of a knife, and she was the only thing stopping it from pitching into the Void? That she wasn’t even sure if there _was_ anything to worry about, as he’d had one foot on the path leading away from her since she’d met him? 

All of it was tangled. All of it was twisted. And none of it made sense. 

“Is it because of Jonas?”

She started, the quick flash of pain burning away as she met Derek’s eyes. A knot formed in her throat, as if the years of avoiding his name, his memory, had physically manifested to strangle her. 

“No,” she managed, glad to feel the truth of her denial. “It’s not that.”

Derek watched her, waiting. 

“It’s… I don’t know what it is. I’m worried. And I shouldn’t be. I don’t like that I am. I hate it, actually.” She took a deep breath and looked out over the training fields, already covered in soldiers and scouts, the green and gold banners of the Inquisition flapping in the wind, the mountains piercing the sky behind them. 

“Do you love him?” 

The breath rushed out of her lungs as if she’d been physically punched. It took her a moment to form the words, finally muttering, “I don’t know.”

“Does he love you?”

A laugh startled out of her. “I have no fucking idea. Probably not. I don’t think it’s that simple.”

Love was such a foreign concept to her, something naive whispered under the watchful eyes of templars, something ripped from her chest and broken with a spiral brand. She’d thought she had loved Jonas, but she’d been a child. She had never known real love, not from a parent or a friend—she’d known nothing before him. And everything after was colored by his loss. 

Now…she didn’t know. And that terrified her. The fallout from Solas’s rejection in Haven still hurt, no matter that she understood, that she’d accepted it. What would happen to her now, if she was… _in love_ with him?

She didn’t have the luxury of breaking down again. Not with so many people looking to her. 

And so she had separated herself from that piece of her which pined and burned and ached, had placed it carefully behind the iron bars around her heart. Shut it off, kept it hidden, ignored the pain. 

Even now, with Derek’s gaze heavy on her face, waiting, she was holding it back. 

“He sounds like a real—”

“Don’t.” She forced herself to look at him, to acknowledge the pity and concern in his eyes, the anger on her behalf. It made her feel small, but she accepted it. Or she tried to. “I understand why you’re doing this, but you don’t need to. I’m a big girl. I’ll soldier on, like always.”

His brow furrowed, disapproval written over every line of his face. “You shouldn’t have to.”

She forced a weak smile and reached up to pat his cheek, perhaps a bit too hard. “You’re very sweet. But I mean it—I can’t talk about it. Not right now.”

He looked as if he might argue, when a voice rose over the gentle sounds of the mountains. “Everyone’s arrived, your worship!”

Roslyn turned to see Rylen standing at the edge of a grassy field, a group of people milling about behind him. “Come on,” she murmured, pulling on Derek’s elbow. “Your turn to feel uncomfortable.”

His expression of dread helped alleviate some of the tension still constricting her chest, but it was short lived. “I picked you for a reason, you know,” she said, giving him a reassuring wink.

Derek shot her a dark glare, slouching and drifting a bit behind her, as if he might avoid responsibility by not being seen, never mind that he was almost a head taller than her. “I’m well aware that you think you’re evening the score between us, but I never thought you were this petty.”

She stopped, forcing him to jerk back before he smacked into her. “Derek Harper,” she said firmly, “you snuck out of Redcliffe against the wishes of your Grand Enchanter to come ask me for help, a person you thought had betrayed you and started working for an organization committed to hunting down mages and throwing them back into the Circles you hated. Why?”

His eyes narrowed. “Is this a trick question?”

“You can pretend to shirk responsibility as much as you like, and act like you’re just a clueless idiot caught up in the wake of greater people, but I know better.” She smiled, a flicker of pride warming her chest. “You’ve grown up, despite your best efforts. You’re the finest person for this job, and not only because I am inordinately fond of you. You’re smart, charismatic, and you _care_. I don’t want anyone else trying to convince the rest of the world that people like us deserve to live free. I won’t accept it, either.” 

Red splotches had begun to appear along the side of his neck, his eyes grown increasingly uncomfortable. “I don’t know if I like you complimenting me.”

“Bit off-putting, isn’t it?”

He laughed breathlessly, looking over her shoulder at the gathered crowd. “Downright terrifying.”

“You’re going to be perfect,” she said, dropping her voice and straightening his askew tunic. “And if you aren’t, I’m sure Bethany Hawke will be more than happy to take over.”

She turned, grinning as Derek cursed her under his breath. 

Everything she’d said was true. It wasn’t nepotism or favoritism which had landed him the job. Fiona supported him, as did many of the mages he’d brought back from Kirkwall and the Free Marches. Even Cullen had begrudgingly given him praise, noting that Derek had been instrumental in smoothing out issues over the past few months when a few soldiers had run afoul of the mage tower and thought to start trouble.

Derek was the right person for the job, and it was about time she give him something to do that was worthy of his skills. 

Plus, it gave her an opportunity to make him uncomfortable, which was, truly, a special treat. 

“Rylen,” she called, giving the lieutenant a wide smile, “how are we today?” She eyed the slight separation between the mages and the rest of her recruits, recognizing a few of the soldiers and templars who had volunteered to join. She’d been reluctant to allow the latter, but Rylen had vouched for them, and that would have to be good enough for her. And she had to admit, a group of mages with even one templar working with them would help ease the fears of those common people who were more entrenched in their distrust of unchecked power. 

He’d returned shortly after her quick visit to the Grand Forest Villa to confer with Cullen about the state of their base of operations in the Hinterlands, and to oversee the transfer of templar knights to help train the greener troops there. The affair had been smoothly handled by Josephine, whom she assumed had been gently nudged by Leliana. Part of her hated the backwards maneuvering already taking place with the templars, to spread them out, and introduce them more thoroughly into the Inquisition, but she didn’t know how Josephine and Cullen would react to her decision to use the Inquisition in such a way. With Barris out searching for any knights who still roamed free, unaware of their order’s decision to pledge themselves to the Inquisition, Rylen had been placed in temporary command. 

“About as fine as one can be, your worship,” he said with a small bow. 

She frowned at the formality of his tone, noting the tight look in his eyes. “Something on your mind?”

“No, not at all,” he said distractedly, turning back to the assembled group. “Right, gather round, you lot.”

Roslyn set aside her immediate concern, knowing that Rylen was not the kind of man to undermine her in public. If he had issues with her redistribution of the templars, he would have voiced them already—wouldn’t he?

“Right,” she said, meeting the eyes of the small group. “I know you’re all up earlier than you might like, but I wanted to talk to you before you begin organizing. To thank you, really.”

Most of the mages had been selected from outside the Rebellion, or from those who had no ties to the fraternities. Circle politics were difficult for even the most seasoned to navigate, and she would prefer not to deal with them at all until they’d figured out how to manage themselves. 

Bethany and a few other mages from Kirkwall had volunteered, which surprised Roslyn. Kirkwall had been the birthplace of the Rebellion. For some reason she’d expected all the mages there to have fallen in line with Hawke and Anders. She hadn’t had much time to talk to them, with how busy she’d been since they arrived, but it seemed that the two people responsible for the spark which had set fire to the flames of rebellion had not been well-liked by their peers. Hawke, she could understand. That man would have ruffled even the most understanding of feathers. Anders remained a mysterious figure, as neither Varric nor Hawke seemed inclined to mention him, but she could only assume that his actions would have gained him more than his fair share of enemies. 

After hearing from Wardens Aeducan and Rainier that the Wardens in Ferelden were most likely not the same who hailed from the Free Marches, Bethany had returned to Skyhold with more hope that her brother had joined the majority of his order at Weisshaupt. A kind, efficient woman, Roslyn had been impressed by how easily she managed to cool tempers. Another benefit of being Garrett Hawke’s younger sister, presumably. She would make a fantastic addition to this group, but Roslyn had been reluctant to ask her for fear of stirring Hawke back into his obstinate demeanor before Crestwood. 

“I realize that I’m asking the impossible of you,” she continued, looking over the group with what she hoped was an encouraging smile. “But I wouldn’t send you out there to the wolves if I wasn’t reasonably sure you had a fighting chance to make a difference.” She lingered on the mages, making sure each of them met her gaze. She caught on one of the mages—the familiar face of Cath Surana, the cousin of Iwan, standing straight-backed and solid amidst the others, who all seemed to be somewhat nervous. There were thirty in total. All of them wore new robes, outfitted with the finest the Inquisition could spare. They looked hale and hearty. Friendly. Unassuming. 

_Safe_. She hated the thought, but it was true. None of them looked like they might turn into an abomination at the drop of the hat. There was no anger in their eyes, no burning desire to take out their pain and vengeance on the innocent people of Ferelden. 

In other words, none of them looked like _she_ might have looked had their places been reversed. 

She exhaled and nodded. “Thank you. The rest of the world might think us mad for taking this opportunity in the midst of a war, but I won’t waste what chances we’ve been given. Train hard. Work together. That’s the only way we’re making it out of this darkness alive.” 

The silence held for a moment, and then a figure in the back spoke up. “You really think this will work, Herald?” 

She was a short woman, with greying temples and sleek black skin, eyes wide and bright in the morning sun. She wore her robes in the Free Marches style, with her samite mantle buckled at her neck and her potions resting on her hip. The teal cloth would be infused with what enchantments the Tranquil of her Circle could manage, protection from the elements as well as hardened fibers to absorb blows and encourage the dispersion of mana through the garments themselves. 

Roslyn could feel the memory of its weight on her own shoulders. She’d never felt more encumbered than when she was wearing those robes. 

“I do,” she said after a moment. “I think this freedom will only hold if the people of Thedas realize we aren’t a danger to them. That we can help just as much as they think we can hurt.” She saw a few of the templars’ faces tighten, but the soldiers seemed willing to listen. And it was worth it to see the light and pride flicker in each mage’s eyes. 

“I’ve seen it happen before,” Cath said with a small smile, black eyes glinting in the morning sun. “No reason it can’t happen again. Unless you shems decide to make a mess of things.”

There was a moment of awkward silence. 

Bethany shrugged. “I’ve found that humans generally respond well to having their livelihoods saved, no matter where the help comes from. And the humans who _don’t_ respond well aren’t worth the trouble anyway.”

The old woman laughed. “Can’t be more trouble than Kirkwall.”

The tension broke, and smiles were shared with mages and templars alike. _Gallows humor_ , Roslyn thought with a grin.

Derek cleared his throat. The group looked at him, more than a few holding back dubious expressions. “Right. Well. You heard the woman in charge. Might as well crack on, then.”

Bethany laughed at his discomfort, joined by a few of the soldiers. Two templars even grinned. 

“Master Harper is in charge,” she said, patting him forcefully on the back, causing him to trip forward a few steps. “Go easy on him, won’t you?”

“Are you leaving?” he asked, his voice coming out in a hoarse whisper. “Already?”

“I’ll give you all a few days to get acquainted,” she said, smiling over the rest of them. One of the older templars was watching Derek with a fatherly kind of resignation. “Come and get me when you’ve learned everyone’s names.”

She grinned at another sprinkling of laughter, buoyed by the fact that there seemed to be no tension in the group that wasn’t already expected. 

It… _might_ just work. 

“Lieutenant,” she said, stepping away from Derek’s growing expression of horror, as if he hadn’t thought she’d actually go through with this, “walk with me?”

Rylen nodded, his expression oddly distant. 

She cast one last look over her shoulder as Derek coughed again, and caught Bethany’s eye. The woman gave her a small smile, and a reassuring wink. She hoped Derek would rise to the occasion, but she had a feeling Bethany might just take over management at some point anyway. Derek had a history of following strong women. He might even prefer it that way. 

“They’re going to eat him alive,” Rylen muttered under his breath. 

Roslyn grinned. “Let him surprise you before you discount him. He’s more capable than he looks.”

“Of course, my lady.”

She eyed the man, noting the tense set of his shoulders. “You know you can share any doubts you have with me, Rylen. I’m more than aware that this idea of mine is rather…unorthodox.”

He started, turning to her with a surprised frown. The sweeping lines of his tattoos stood out sharply against his tanned and weathered skin. “I—oh, Maker, no, I don’t have any doubts concerning _you_ , Inquisitor.” He chuckled, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “Harper’s an idiot, but he seems willing to learn. I have every faith in the knights I picked for him, and the mages are all good people. I think it’s commendable, what you’re trying to do.”

“But you don’t think it will work?”

He sighed. “I think I spent most of my career trying to see another way for mages and templars to coexist. When the Starkhaven Circle fell, I thought it was hopeless. But maybe… Andraste willing, things will change for the better. If there’s anyone who can get it done, it’s you.”

She warmed at his praise, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something bothering him. She didn’t know him that well, but he had always struck her as an open, honest sort of man. “I appreciate the confidence, Rylen. Makes it a lot easier to pretend to have it myself.”

“Aye, my lady,” he said softly, scratching at the scruff on his chin. “I wondered—” He broke off, frowning. “Ach, never mind. You’ve got more important things to worry about.”

Her brow rose as she came to a stop beside the main mess tent, the sounds of soldiers digging into their breakfast muted by the heavy canvas. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, really, it’s—”

“Rylen.”

He cleared his throat, looking a bit sheepish. “Well. You haven’t heard from Lace—I mean, Scout Harding, have you?”

Roslyn blinked. “I…can’t say I have.”

Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t heard any update on Harding’s progress along the edge of the Korcari Wilds in months, not since she had left for Crestwood. The latest report had Harding’s squad settling somewhere called the Fallow Mire. 

She refocused on Rylen, noting the tight worry in his eyes, realizing that he’d used the woman’s first name. “Are you worried about her?”

His face scrunched in discomfort, and he shrugged. “I—well we struck up something of a correspondence after we got to Skyhold. I mentioned I was feeling a bit stir crazy in the Hinterlands and she offered to write me every once in while. Not that I don’t appreciate the work, your worship, I do,” he added, cheeks growing red. “I just—well, it’s a beautiful spot we’ve got there, but there’s not much in the way of excitement now that we’ve scared off most of the bears.”

“I understand, Rylen.” She tried not to smile, remembering the way Harding had blushed at the man during the one, brief party they’d managed to throw for themselves before Haven had been attacked. “Maker knows I went a little mad down there as well, once upon a time.”

He looked as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or not. 

“I’m sure she’s fine,” she said, reassuring herself as well. “Harding is the most resourceful woman I’ve ever met. If anyone can slog through something called the _Fallow Mire_ and come out the other side with only a smile and a comment on the lovely weather, it’s her.”

The tension left his shoulders as he nodded. “Aye, you’re right, Inquisitor. Sorry to have mentioned it.”

“No, don’t be. I’ll talk to Leliana and see if we can spare a raven.”

His expression brightened. “Thank you, my lady. I’d appreciate that. I’ve—well, she’s a friend. I worry.”

She fought the urge to grin as they took up their patrol of the grounds once more, Rylen falling into an easier gait and a…thrilling explanation about the differing training styles he and Cullen were implementing with their troops to give them the most well-rounded approach to combatting the Venatori and the Red Templars. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...hey guys! It's been *checks last update* oh god it's been over a year. Wow. How the time flies. I'm going to try not to apologize too much and only say that wow I've struggled with this story. I don't totally know what the future holds for Ascendant, but I do know that I have the rest of this part, Book Two, all written, and I plan on posting it for you. I don't know if any of you are still hanging around, but to those of you who are, I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart. I know I've been...difficult to follow over the past few years, but I sincerely treasure every single person who left a nice comment. It means the world to me. 
> 
> Okay, some housekeeping. Obviously a few things changed, like the title. I did add some new content to old chapters, which I have marked with a note at the top, but if you'd like to read some new scenes, those would be found in chapters **5, 17,** and **18**. Nothing major has changed apart from me cutting out Marius and Tessa. The Magekiller kids might show up in a future installment, but the plans for the end of this book changed and I needed to do some reconfigurations, which meant they went away for a while. 
> 
> If you have any questions, since it's been over a year (oh my god), please feel free to ask. And if you are still around, I'd love to hear from you. I feel oddly terrified to be posting this again. I plan, right now, to post one chapter/week. Expect one every Friday until this is done. All my love to you guys, seriously <3
> 
> **I forgot to mention that Roslyn's steward's name has been changed to Patroclus. Trevor was a bit too mundane for a Pentaghast, so now we have a proper Greek name for the young lad. Sorry for the confusion.**


	34. A Balancing Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["On The Wire" by Air Traffic Controller](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bkoZVmfn33w&t=0s&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&index=36)

“Did you fall asleep?”

Roslyn opened one eyelid, squinting over the short distance between her and Adaleni where he sat cross-legged on a boulder. “Of course not.”

His expression remained flat even as his hands hovered on either side of a tall potted plant. It slowly undulated in the afternoon sun, dark green leaves shimmering with a golden aura. “What did I just say these berries could be used to make?”

She was lying on her back, with her arms folded behind her head, the soft mountain air brushing over her bare arms and face. Up on the western ridge overlooking Skyhold, the ground was cold, its guardian magics not as potent. The clash of warm sunlight and chill, hard ground made it easy to nod off. Which she had been about to do before Adi had raised his voice from his gentle recitation of all the various benefits and applications of the plant sitting in his hand. 

She closed her eyes, grinning. “Pie.”

“You’d think the Inquisitor would be more informed about what goes into her restorative draughts.”

“As long as they work, I don’t rightly care what’s in them. In fact, I’d prefer not to know if the thing I’m drinking is bronto piss mushed together with some moldy berries, thank you.”

“Do you even know what the plant’s name is?”

She frowned. “Prophet’s Laurel.”

“You _were_ listening. How shocking.” 

Roslyn fought the urge to shove him off his rock. He’d grown far too bold in the last few months. If she wasn’t so fond of him, she’d find it annoying. And assaulting pubescent teenage boys might tarnish her reputation as a defender of the small. 

“I thought you might have appreciated knowing more about it,” he continued. “The story’s fascinating. Apparently they threw it at Andraste’s feet as she walked to her pyre, and her ashes imbued with it with the ability to purify any ailment.” The birdsong tinkle of his aura resonated in the still afternoon silence, followed by the steady pulse of crackling fire and the gentle heat of sunlight. “I thought you liked Andraste.”

“I do like Andraste,” she muttered. “That’s why I’m not enthusiastic about a plant people chucked at her shins as she marched to her death. For some reason, it makes me uncomfortable.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Right, I can understand why.”

_Said so casually_. She smiled, reaching over to the snow bank to her right and forming a ball. Without looking, she lobbed it toward Adi’s head. It smacked against his barrier, charging the air with more of his aura. She opened her eyes to see him frowning disapprovingly down at her. 

“Really,” he scoffed, “that seems un—”

Her second snowball hit him square in the face. He managed to catch himself before he fell, but the plant tipped dangerously sideways as he scrambled. 

She caught the pot before it could upend itself onto the ground, wrapping a tendril of energy around it to hold it above his head as he righted himself. “That was for trying to ram an icicle through my head a few weeks ago,” she said pleasantly, sitting up and mirroring his pose, drifting the pot closer until it dropped into her lap. 

He spluttered, wiping snow off his red face. Some of it had gotten caught in his hair, which made all his careful work at smoothing it over the past hour go to waste. 

Adi blinked, deflated. “Roslyn, I never really apologized—”

“Luckily for you, I’m used to people trying to kill me.” She smiled to soften her words. “I’m willing to overlook it if you promise not to try again.” 

He wiped the last of the snow from his face. “I didn’t mean to.” He looked down, face tight. “My magic…gets away from me sometimes.”

She watched him, sliding the serrated leaves through her fingers. “Does that happen to you often?”

Darkness crept into the corners of his eyes as he nodded. 

“Do you remember what I told you to do the day your magic surfaced?”

He scowled. “I’m not going to sing a song every time I get frightened.”

Her chest restricted uncomfortably, but she barreled on, hearing the note of derision in his voice. She understood that feeling, more than she could ever convey. “That’s what I do.”

Adi eyed her suspiciously, as if waiting for her to laugh and take it back. “I’ve never heard you sing before.”

“I didn’t mean that I _sing_.” She snorted. “You don’t want me to sing, trust me. And I don’t do it often anymore, so you wouldn’t have, you little shit.” She set the tall plant aside and tucked her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. “I recite the Chant.”

“Really?”

She nodded, resting her chin, breathing out her anxiety of the sheer act of voicing it to someone else. “When I feel like I’m spiraling and my magic is growing dangerous, I’ll speak it in my head, or out loud if I’m alone. It helps me center my mind and reminds me that I’m in control.” _Sometimes._

Roslyn hadn’t needed to rely on the Chant in a long time, not since she’d met Isahn. With the wolf’s help and his careful training, she now had more control over her magic than ever before. It was a blessing, but in a way she missed the reliance, the readiness to draw on something bigger than herself. The comfort in knowing that, even if it wasn’t real, she could call on the Maker’s influence to strengthen her. Especially now with the question of who the winged woman was, it would have been nice to keep the Chant in her heart. 

_There’s a chantry here_ , a voice whispered furtively into the back of her mind. She _could_ go pray, if she wanted to. 

There remained the truth, however, that everything she did now was known and seen. If she were to visit the small shrine to Andraste in the garden outside the great hall, people would notice. It shouldn’t be news that the Herald of Andraste prayed, but it would be nonetheless. It would mean different things to different people. Some might see it and call her a zealot, others a pretender. And of course, her lack of praying might mean even more to those who needed more to trust her. 

She fought the urge to scowl at the thought that everything she did, or _didn’t_ do, could be twisted into an argument for something, if one was clever enough. If one had the right motivation.

“It might not work for you,” she added, realizing that Adi was waiting for her to continue. “You’re only a few months into your magic, little tree. Give yourself time to figure it out. It will get easier with time as well. Honestly,” she said, nodding toward the plant which had grown a foot in the scant hour they’d spent outside, “you’re doing better than you should be.”

She watched him fidget, wanting to rise and pull him into a hug. Maker, he looked young still, even if he was changing at an alarming rate. In less than half a year, he had transformed from a soft little boy to a growing young man. The passage of time apparent in his sharper, defined features, the quick, gangly growth of his limbs. She didn’t know why, but it made some part of her heart tighten in sadness to think that the boy who’d held her hand as he’d spoken of cities of floating glass had been lost to the ruins of Havens, alive now only in her own memories.

“If you’d grown up in a Circle, they’d call you a savant.” She grinned, trying not to let her pain show. “I’m jealous.”

“No, you’re not,” he mumbled, messing with the edges of his straw-colored hair where it curled over his pointed ears. “You think all of this is boring.”

“I do,” she allowed, “but only because I can’t do any of it. I’ve never been any good at Creation magic.”

She did not add that it made her feel like a wretched, sad little girl, watching all her peers huddle over their plants while she tried desperately to coax some life into her own empty pot, the backs of her ears burning while _monster_ was passed around like a secret behind her back. The little monster who had nearly killed her half-sister when her magic had surfaced.

Her Circle tower was far away, in another life, but it still hovered around her—a reminder that all this free space and clean air was a gift which might be taken away at any moment. 

Adi frowned dubiously. “You learned how to conjure a barrier in less than two months. You could learn how to do this as well.”

“But why should I when I have no interest in it?” She tilted her head, reaching over to a clump of grass struggling out of the snow to her left. The old lessons were still there in the back of her head, no matter how much she had tried to forget them in the painful years since. Her aura swelled, stirring only a brief acknowledgement from the wolf. Power bled from her fingers meant to tap into the plant’s natural energies, white and smoking when it should have been a soft, pulsing yellow. She tried to concentrate on growth, on healing, on encouraging the life within the plant to flourish. 

But the moment her fingers touched the plant, it rioted. A riot of wildflowers burst from the stalks of grass in a violent display of yellow and white, growing so fast they shot up a few inches into the air. Pollen exploded in a cloud of golden dust, cloying and tangy. For a second, she thought it might actually have worked, before the vibrant green grass and colorful flowers darkened into dead silver, the color bleeding like a line of burning flame. Ashes flaked off from the plant as it wilted into dust in her upturned hand, blowing away in the cold mountain breeze, smelling of petrichor and rust. 

Roslyn shifted the remnants over her skin, dusting them off onto the snow. “Some people aren’t meant to grow things, Adaleni. Some people can only destroy.”

The thought unfurled like a flame inside her chest, not warm or comforting, but bright. 

She found him watching her with haunted eyes. 

“I didn’t mean you,” she murmured, rising to her feet and folding him into a hug. “ _You_ seem to be one of the lucky ones who can do both.” 

They stayed like that for a while, the boy leaning into her with a strength she could feel now in his shaking hands. She shouldn’t be worried about him, but she was. Adaleni was smart, and kind. People liked him, and he was doing better than he once had. He might come through the other side of this war whole, able to take his pain and make it into something other than a weapon. But he felt like _hers_ , in a way no one else ever had. Not even the wolf, who seemed about as interested in her now as it had been at the very beginning. She felt responsible for him, and damn her if she didn’t hate seeing the same fear in his eyes that she’d taken so long to overcome herself. 

“He’s coming back.”

She stiffened, knowing who he meant. 

“Solas, I mean.” Adaleni unfolded from her embrace, wiping moisture from his eyes. There was determination in their depths, certainty in the hardening lines of his face. “He’s coming back.”

For a moment, she wondered perhaps if Adaleni was a dreamer, if he had spoken to Solas in the Fade. 

But surely she would have met him by now. 

No, it was just faith shining from his eyes.

“I know you’re worried, but he wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye.” Adi looked up at her, scrutinizing her expression. “He’s not that kind of person.”

“You two have gotten close, haven’t you?”

He nodded, a faint blush dusting the tops of his cheeks. “He’s taught me a lot. More than anything my… He’s the smartest person I’ve ever met.”

Her chest tightened, but she forced herself to grin. “Don’t tell Dorian that. He’ll go mad with jealousy.”

“Dorian is…fine. They seem to find it enjoyable to fight over who gets to teach me, so I—shouldn’t complain. I’m not. Or. Well.” He cleared his throat, stepping away from her awkwardly. “It can be irksome.”

She snorted, noting his blush had deepened to a bright pink splotch on his neck. “Irksome indeed.” She imagined it might be difficult, with two handsome, stubborn professors battling for the right to spend time with him. She remembered fancying one or two professors in her time, listening to the other apprentices gossip and speculate about the love lives of those enchanters who were attractive or kind. _Maker save me from the burgeoning lust of adolescence._

“I hope you’re right,” she murmured at last, smoothing back his hair with a weak smile. “You deserve the best education the Inquisition can afford. I certainly can’t teach you anything worth while. Unless you’d like to learn how to launch yourself ten feet into the air?”

His face blanched, and she laughed. 

“Come on. Let’s go back. I’ve been gone long enough that I’m worried the entire keep has fallen apart without me.”

Adi collected his plant and fell into step beside her as they walked down the steep path to Skyhold’s bridge. They passed the spot marked for the memorial to Haven, and she fought the urge to stop and pay her respects. Adi was keeping his eyes anywhere except the memorial, and she didn’t want to leave him yet. She had insisted they take their “lesson” outside of the keep today, even though he was not exactly fond of the heights, needing to free herself from the watchful attention of the fortress. The magic of Skyhold’s barrier layered back over her in a gradual wave, and she sighed, content. The fortress was familiar now, comforting, but there was something beautiful about the thin air high above it, the tingle of the Veil so slight she felt as if she might be able to reach out and brush it aside. 

“He will, you know,” Adi muttered, eyes fixed on the ground as he navigated a rough patch of the path. He reached out instinctively for her hand as he slipped, and she braced him before he could topple forward. “Come back. From the way he talks about the Inquisition, it’s clear he wants to be here.”

Roslyn settled him back on his feet, trying to keep her expression clear. She would not argue with him, both because she wished it were true, and because she didn’t want to worry him. If Adaleni had faith in Solas, she wouldn’t take that away from him. Not yet. 

_Come back for him, at least,_ she thought desperately, letting Adaleni enter into a largely one-sided conversation about what kinds of herbs she should start cultivating in the Chantry garden. 

He was too young to have lost so many people—his mother, his father, and now…

Adaleni left her when they passed the rotunda, seemingly the only person who hadn’t been avoiding the place in Solas’s absence. She followed the back of his head for a moment before it dipped up into the staircase to the upper apartments, determinately not looking at the murals. 

The way to her rooms was clear of anyone who might try to grab at her attention, and she took her opening, hurrying before Josephine popped out of her office to steal her away for signing documents or greeting the nobles they were hosting that week, or some other inane task. 

She jogged up her staircase, almost eager to throw herself onto her bed for an afternoon nap, when her hopes were soiled by the sight of two people loitering in her room. 

Patroclus shot upright from the chair he’d been sitting in, his expression mortified. Isahn, seated behind her desk with his bare feet crossed atop her papers, merely grinned. 

“Don’t I have guards?” She scowled, walking over to her desk and pulling her notes on the new Ferelden relief effort out from under the elf’s feet. “Or can anyone just walk into my rooms whenever they like?”

Patroclus looked unsure of himself. He’d been doing better at judging Roslyn’s moods of late, though he still seemed to have some trouble determining whether or not she was joking most of the time. “I can talk to the commander about posting—”

She rounded on him, brandishing the papers at his chest. “You will do no such thing, or I will ask you to be reassigned to Ambassador Montilyet’s party committee.”

He looked stunned for one moment, before he let out a choked laugh. “I think I’d rather you threw me out the window, my lady. Though I doubt your next steward will know to arrange your schedule so you can disappear in the middle of the day for an hour with no one being the wiser.”

Isahn snorted. 

Roslyn sighed. “You are irreplaceable, Patroclus, but not indispensable.”

“I shall try to remember that, my lady.”

“And what are you doing here?” she asked Isahn, fighting the urge to smack his legs. She didn’t want him blowing her papers off her desk in retaliation. Also, she didn’t think he would let her, in any case.

“You missed your training yesterday.”

“I was fending off the advances of a minor baron. You’ll excuse me if I didn’t send you a note.”

“I will not.” He frowned. “Marital advances?”

She eyed him curiously as she nodded. 

His grimace held the faint air of sympathy, before he continued, “Perhaps you can pledge yourself to your god if you want to stave off anything more. Aren’t your priests celibate?”

It took her a moment to follow his sharp turn in conversation. “I—no, not all of them. Some Chantry mothers ‘marry’ the Maker in the fashion of Andraste, but they’re…more enthusiastic than most. Also, I am not allowed to enter the priesthood, being not truly human.” 

Isahn shrugged, the beads of his long hair clacking together pleasantly. “You can always kill one of your suitors. That usually deters people from more attempts.”

Patroclus made a choked sound, drawing Isahn’s sharp smile. 

“And on that pleasant note,” she said, turning around to kick off her boots, “both of you please fuck off.”

“My lady,” Patroclus said, neck going dark red as he cleared his throat, “you’ve—received a few letters. And one parcel.”

“Anything from Scout Harding?” she asked at once, her nap forgotten. She’d only asked Leliana a few days ago after Rylen’s concern, but her spymaster hadn’t heard from the company in over two weeks. She was trying with increasing difficulty not to worry.

Patroclus shook his head. “A personal note from the Ferelden king, another invitation to Duke Cyril’s estate in Wildervale,” he paused while Roslyn groaned, “along with another gift.”

She grimaced as Patroclus gestured to a purple box sitting on her side table that she hadn’t noticed before. How she’d missed it, she didn’t know, as it was covered in gold netting and what looked like actual pearls. “How angry do you think Ambassador Montilyet would be if I just chucked it out of the window?”

“The ambassador told me to ensure that you did not attempt to smash the box before you opened it, if only to see what the gift entailed so she could write a thank-you note.”

Roslyn waved her hand, not wanting to so much as touch it. “You brought it here. You can open it.”

Patroclus made no move to do anything of the sort. 

“You don’t think I know who ended up eating those disgusting candies?” She arched her brow as the young man’s face turned a delicate shade of burnt red. Only when he was embarrassed did she see the family resemblance to Cassandra. Apparently, all Pentaghasts looked the same kind of mortified. “Take them as my gift, Patroclus, just take them away.”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” he mumbled, opening the box to reveal, as she suspected, another package of sweets. Some kind of whipped, iced monstrosity that tasted of flowers dipped in butter.

“Wait.” She peered forward, noticing a long-necked bottle nestled in the midst of crumpled pink paper. Snatching it, she patted him on the cheek. Duke Cyril might have better taste in wine. “Now you can go. Thank you, Patroclus.”

“There is one more letter for you.” He nodded toward the letters on her desk, edging out of her rooms as quickly as possible now that he had his sweets. “From Margrave Penswallow.”

That piqued her interest. She frowned, pulling out a small envelope of rough velum, with only the word, _Inquisitor_ , scrawled along the top. It was surprisingly heavy, the weight of something flat and round pressed against the envelope. 

Isahn made a disgusted sound at something, but she ignored him as she broke the seal and tipped the envelope into her hand. 

A scarf pin fell out of it. An inch or so around and heavy, made of what looked like tarnished silver, it bore the standard of a horse. Olive green paint was flecked on its mane, though it looked as if most of its color had worn off years ago. The background might once have been white, but was now worn down to more worn silver. Over the horse’s head sat a carving, any pigment set into the carved metal long gone, leaving only the faint impression of a rune.

A rune, she recognized at once, which meant _defiance_ in Ancient Tevene. 

“Penswallow,” Isahn repeated. “Humans come up with the oddest names. Might as well name oneself after bird shit.”

Roslyn wasn’t listening, staring down at the pin in disbelief. Her mind couldn’t put together the pieces she was looking at, frozen on the achingly familiar crest. The crest she’d spent eight years of her life walking past as she moved silently through the halls of the Emerald Cove, trying not to look too closely at for fear it would tell her that she was wrong, that she didn’t belong there in those pristine, echoing corridors. 

She’d almost forgotten about the letter until it nearly slipped from her numb fingers. She caught it, reading it once, and then again when she missed any of the meaning behind the short, unaffected words. 

> _Inquisitor,_
> 
> _I came across this old Trevelyan scarf pin while cleaning out my grandfather’s shipyard office. The old man used to collect oddities from his sailors, tokens of affection, silly, worthless things. He was adept at Wicked Grace, and liked to hound his men in their off hours. Apparently one of the men he beat was a distant relation of yours. I considered sending it to the lady chancellor, but I thought you would appreciate it more. I hope I was not mistaken._
> 
> _Lady keep you in Her grace,_
> 
> _Richard Penswallow, Margrave to Hercinia_

Roslyn looked again at the pin, the realization filtering through her numb mind, settling like a sharp, unwieldy weight in her chest. 

The Trevelyan crest. 

She’d seen it on the banners whipping in the chill sea air, on the tapestries of those cold, white marble halls, on the soldiers’ armor who trained in the yard. Lady Kirstena had worn one of her own whenever she left on official business, the only relic of her late husband she had kept after his death, and the revelation of his infidelity in the form of a half-elven child. Roslyn had pinned it to the old woman’s scarf more times than she’d been able to count. Helena had tortured her with it, forcing her to stare up at the wall where it was carved into the entrance of that dark, shadowed palace on the cliff, forcing her to admit that it was not hers. That she belonged to no one, and nothing, and had no name of her own to call home.

And now it was sitting in her hand. 

The margrave had sent it to her. Not Helena. 

The past clashed with the present, and her eyes burned as she refused to blink. If she blinked, she might find herself back there, standing in front of the grim tapestry in the entrance of the Emerald Cove, listening for footsteps, dreading the moment someone would find her and drag her back to the servants’ quarter, the moment her life would be revealed for the fantasy it had become. 

_“Da’shyl?”_

She blinked, Isahn’s voice bringing her solidly back to herself. 

Clearing her throat, she put the letter down, took a deep breath through her nose. Her heart was pounding, but she was still lucid. She had not been pulled under again. 

“Sorry,” she muttered, shaking her head as the wolf sent her a half-hearted thread of concern. It was gone just as quickly, vanished before she could so much as acknowledge it. “What did you want?” Her tone was sharper than she’d intended, and she looked up with a frown, ready to apologize again.

Isahn watched her closely, his bright black eyes seeming to cut through her. “Why has Solas left?”

Part of her was still caught in the shock of seeing the crest, the riot of emotions it stirred within her breast at the very thought of it, and so it took a moment for her to understand what he’d asked. Strangely, it sounded rather foolish in her confusion.

“Why do you care?”

Isahn’s face betrayed nothing, but there was a stillness to his posture that she recognized now, after the last month of training with him, like he was readying to strike or defend. “I can’t be curious about the whereabouts of my old friend?”

Perhaps her mind was too full to deal with the thoughts swirling through it, but she struggled to cut her tone as it came out barbed. “If you were actually friends, I’d say you could be, but considering that to my knowledge you two haven’t spoken since that first day I met you in Crestwood, I’d think it was a little strange.”

He pulled his feet from her desk and stood, cocking his head at her. “Are you protecting him, Inquisitor? I assure you, he doesn’t need it.”

All the frustration and anger of the past few weeks came to a head as she met his scrutiny, his insincere jest. He was testing her, just as he was always testing her, and she wasn’t in the mood. 

“Perhaps I am protecting myself,” she said loudly, turning from him and leaning over her desk, bracing herself as she fought the urge to smash the wine bottle against his head. “Or perhaps I’m not interested in being his errand girl. He’s a grown man. So are you. If you’re curious, you can ask him about it when he returns. Maker fucking knows, I have better things to worry about.”

The silence rang with her voice, but she refused to be cowed by the interest forming behind his dark, piercing eyes. 

She liked him, truly, she did, but she was done with the half-veiled allusions, the empty answers, the little jabs to see where her walls held and where she was weak. He was a brilliant teacher, and she wanted him to stay, but she couldn’t keep walking on crumbling edges anymore. 

For the first time in her life, Roslyn had tasted stability, and she had no intention of going back to the way she’d lived before. If Isahn wanted to be a part of her life, he could be, but she wouldn’t bare her neck to convince him she was worth it. 

A part of her realized the hypocrisy of the thought, at just how much of a double standard she was employing when it came to him versus Solas, but she couldn’t think about that. 

Solas was…different, no matter how much she hated that fact. 

Isahn’s brow lifted. “I hadn’t realized you felt so strongly.”

“If there’s nothing else you need, get out.” She forced herself to release the pin still clutched in her hand, straightening. “I’ll make sure to let you know in the future if I can’t make a training session.”

He bowed his head, a hard smile on his lips. “I appreciate the consideration.” He took a step, only to pause as his eyes found the pin. He reached out for it without asking, running his finger over the front. “I’ve seen this before.”

“It’s the Trevelyan coat of arms.” 

A deep line creased his brow. “You’re noble. Or the human part of you is,” he mused, seeming to have forgotten her entirely in his examination of the pin.

“Well spotted.”

The edge of his mouth tilted upward. “How come I haven’t seen any of your family littering the grounds of your castle?”

“The Trevelyans live in Ostwick,” she answered flatly, unable to hold onto her anger. “I don’t have any family.”

Only because she was used to watching him so closely during training, to measure every twitch and shift in his posture, did she notice the slight tremble in his fingers.

He took his time meeting her gaze, his expression once again unreadable. The furrow in his brow held, and grew deeper, if possible. He said nothing for so long that she wondered if he hadn’t frozen in place. 

“What, no snappy comment about my heritage?” she asked, a bit disconcerted by reaction. “No disparaging remark, or half-veiled insult?”

The muscle in his jaw feathered. He slowly placed the pin back on her desk, as if it had grown precious in the few seconds he’d held it. At last, he murmured, “ _Ir abelas, da’shyl_.”

His eyes swept down over her face and widened, as if he were truly seeing her for the first time.

She fought the urge to dismiss his apology. He’d been an ass. He _should_ apologize.

“Meet you on the southern field at sunrise,” she said instead, grabbing the wine bottle and pulling the cork out with her teeth. It was dark, and sweet, and surprisingly good. She would have to send Duke Cyril a better thank-you note this time. 

He watched her, something pulling at the fine lines of his eyes. His mouth opened, and then closed—the hesitation so strange for him that it made her pause in alarm. 

He took a step around her, hand hovering beside her arm, before he thought better of it. “Be careful, Roslyn. My old friend has been known to act in his own self-interest at the expense of those who care for him. It is not him I worry for.”

Quiet expanded into the space between them, stifling. It was the first time he had ever used her first name, and she didn’t like the way it sounded, for some reason. 

“You say he doesn’t need my protection,” she murmured, the wine turning too sweet in her throat. Her hand clenched around the neck of the bottle. Anger flashed in the front of her mind. As if she didn’t know how thoroughly she might be hurt by his…old friend. As if she was a child playing with fire, to be reprimanded by someone who thought he knew better than her what dangers she faced. “Do you honestly think that I need yours?”

His eyes tightened, but he didn’t meet her gaze. Instead, he simply inclined his head, and left without another word. 

Roslyn watched the staircase for a time, fighting the urge to smash the wine bottle against the ground. Her eyes found the pin again, the proud line of the horse pulling at something dangerously fragile at the back of her mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elven  
>  _Ir abelas, da'shyl._ \- I'm sorry, little star.
> 
> **[HEY GUYS LOOK AT THIS AMAZING LITTLE COMMISSION OF ADALENI SOMEONE SO KINDLY GIFTED TO ME. I'M DYING.](https://eveninglottie.tumblr.com/post/176354139789/ineffablewitch-a-completed-commission-from) **
> 
> I hope you guys can bear with me for a few more intermediary chapters. I swear we're getting back into the action soon, I just wanted to fill the spaces with some slice of life Skyhold stuff and housekeeping. Also, Adaleni. And I don't have an excuse yet to bring him on the road with Roslyn, so I need to slide in bonding time while she's still at Skyhold.
> 
> I love you all very, very much <3


	35. Come Attrition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["This Is Why We Fight" by The Decemberists](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oLSOzcEQjiE&t=0s&index=37&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S)

The hilt of the sword hummed in Roslyn’s hand. She turned it over, marveling at the weight and heft, the feel of the smooth leather grip under her palm. It was long, but thin, made for two hands, the guard a stark, simple bar of corded metal with a diamond-shaped gem set into one side. It flickered in the dim light, catching the light off the waterfall and seeming to hold its color, only to shift again when she rotated it. The rune etched into the other side of the pommel glowed white and then green as she ran her thumb across its surface. For all intents and purposes, it was a perfectly made sword, except for the noticeable lack of a blade.

“Isn’t it gorgeous?”

Roslyn grinned and met Dagna’s gaze. “It’s certainly…interesting.”

Over Dagna’s shoulder, Harritt was glaring down at the hilt as if it had just grown a mouth and insulted his mother. 

“Ever since you came to me a month ago,” Dagna said excitedly, “I’ve been thinking about what you said. You need a blade that works with your magic, not against it. You need an extension of you hand, your _mark_.” The dwarf’s face split into a wide, almost manic smile. Her skin was pale, and she looked like she hadn’t slept in a few days, as if she were running on enthusiasm alone. 

Roslyn realized now why Sera had been caught lurking in the Undercroft more than once. Dagna was like a bright red flower to Sera’s buzzing attraction. 

“Obviously, Harritt could have made you a fine sword,” Dagna continued, waving her hand behind her, not noticing the look of murder that crossed over the hard man’s face. “But I thought, you’re a mage for a reason, might as well give you something that no one else can use!”

“You’ve been studying the knight-enchanters,” Roslyn said carefully, trying to keep her voice even.

“Obviously.” Dagna laughed, clapping her hands together. “Gosh, they’re fascinating. That commander’s a right laugh.”

Roslyn tried hard not to let her incredulity enter her expression. Commander Helaine seemed as much of a ‘laugh’ as a raging druffalo. 

“But I’ve never much loved the idea of their spirit blades. Something wrong about trapping one into a hilt. How boring must that be. One day you’re living in the Fade, warping the very fabric of existence itself, and then you’re shoved into a metal tube. Plus, you know,” Dagna shrugged, cheeks flushed, “it’s not like I could summon one myself.”

“Not for lack of trying, I’m sure.” Roslyn smiled, inwardly agreeing with Dagna. It was another reason she had no interest in learning that discipline. Even before she’d gained the anchor, she’d been terrified by the idea of calling on a spirit to fight for her. Though she’d never wondered what it might be like for a spirit.

The irony of her current situation with the wolf curdled her relief. 

Dagna scowled, speculative. “I’ve managed to find some wandering around by accident, especially now that the world’s gone screwy. Actually, the Breach helped a lot. There are tons of spirits and demons just floating around the countryside. If I wasn’t here helping you, I’d probably—”

“Dagna.”

“Right. Anyway.” She stepped forward, taking the hilt from Roslyn’s hand. 

The energy dimmed, but Roslyn sensed it still. She hadn’t spent much time with the Tranquil where they had forged weapons and runes at the base of Aiden’s Tower, but she’d seen more than one or two items pass through the Circle corridors. The sword reminded her uncomfortably of that shameful truth—Tranquil had been just as useful to the Chantry as the mages. Instead of fighters, they’d had blacksmiths, blacksmiths who had been willing to do whatever was asked of them, no matter how dangerous. 

“You see the lyrium rune on this side,” Dagna heaved the hilt over, pointing, “which acts as any other weapon rune might. It holds a specific kind of magic, activated by the right catalyst. Usually, whenever it hits something else with enough force. In this case, however…” She grinned again, eyes sparkling as she looked up at Roslyn. “I’ve made it so it only reacts to _you_. Or the person who can attune to it. Which would be you, because… Well, you’ll see.”

Harritt cleared his throat, grimacing. 

“If you’re uncomfortable, Harritt, you’re more than welcome to leave.” Roslyn gave him an encouraging smile. 

“This is my forge, Inquisitor. I’ll manage,” he muttered, staring daggers at Dagna. “I just think it’s reckless to rely on a blade that only appears if you’re thinking about it hard enough. With respect.”

“He has a point, Dagna.” Roslyn considered the hilt. It was a beautiful idea, but she’d been through enough in the past year and a half to know that her will couldn’t always be relied upon. “What if I get knocked out and my sword disappears?”

“If you get knocked out, how are you going to wield a sword anyway?” Dagna scowled, heaving the hilt back up to Roslyn. “Just…give it a go. What could it hurt? You can still have your other sword, I just think you’ll like this one better. Isahn agreed with me.”

Roslyn felt a pang of conflicting emotions at the sound of her trainer’s name. They hadn’t truly spoken since he’d warned her off Solas last week. They had spent time together training, of course, but their conversations had devolved into short comments about her form and technique. She’d been only too willing to take out her pent up frustration on him, and he seemed willing to accept it without complaint. That should have tipped her off that something was wrong, but she hadn’t brought up the reason for the tension, and he’d been unusually quiet. 

Instead of thinking about it, she wrapped her hands around the hilt and took a few steps back from Dagna and Harritt. 

“So,” Dagna began, “the way it works—”

Roslyn didn’t let her finish. She threaded her aura into the lyrium rune, letting the sweet rush of power break over her. It took only a moment for the connection to surface. Light blazed out from her hands, shot through the hilt of the sword and coated the guard. A blade of pure, shimmering energy lanced upward, singeing the air around it with cold fire. A few inches above the hilt hooks spiked out from either side of the blade, bristling like caged jets of flame. 

The anchor answered the blade at once. Green sparks danced around its length, so thin and sharp it looked like molten starlight had been forged into a lethal edge. The lyrium’s sweet song faded after the initial surge of magic, leaving only a slight prickling on the back of her neck, a familiar sense of weightlessness, the taste of ozone on her tone. 

“Dagna,” she started, the slight buzzing of the blade the only sound in the usually noisy forge, “is this rune—”

“Drawing from the Fade,” she answered at once, walking around with wide, hungry eyes. She reached up as if to touch the blade, but snatched her hand back with a hiccup of laughter. “Oh, Inquisitor, I hoped it would work but I didn’t think…”

The dwarf had managed to fashion a rift into the blade of a sword. 

“This is _brilliant_ ,” Roslyn murmured, testing the weight as she shifted it back and forth in her grip. It reached almost six feet long, though it weighed no more than a normal greatsword. Licks of spark and flame glanced off it as it moved, blurring the air around it. There was a force to its movement, a slight drag, but the vibrations in the hilt would be easily managed. She just needed some time to test it out. 

A smile pulled at her lips. _Let’s see how eager Cullen is to spar with me now._

“Are you,” Harritt began, his voice strangled, “ _shaping_ the blade yourself, your worship?”

Roslyn shook her head. “I think I could, but…” The connection between herself and the sword was strange. It pulled on the mark, drew on it, to feed the blade itself. She was not using any of her own mana to power it, only directing it. But the actual shape was solid, fixed—held within the rune itself in whatever way it also held the spark to activate it. 

She concentrated, willing the blade to reform. The magic resisted. It seemed to want to remain in the shape Dagna had formed for it, but eventually it shortened, curved into something closer resembling the sword Solas had shown her in the Fade a few months ago. 

With a jolt, she realized she was employing the same focus, the same power she used to reshape the Fade. It made sense, in a terrifying way. The blade was made of Fade energy, pulled through the Veil itself. Of course she would be able to shape it.

The thought made her stomach drop, but there was an exhilaration to it. Like the moment before gravity shifted in her path through the air when she launched herself upward on a wave of force, when she was held aloft by nothing— _flying_ for one single, solitary breath.

She released the energy and it reshaped itself into the six-foot blade. 

“It’s… How…?” Harritt stumbled for words, looking at Dagna with a look of mixed fear and awe. “How’d you _do_ that, girl?”

Dagna crossed her arms, excitement evident in her slight bouncing. “By watching you, obviously. Where else would I learn how to craft a _sword?”_

Harritt blinked, nonplussed. 

Grinning, Roslyn fought the urge to test the sharpness of the blade against her own skin. She didn’t want to make her blacksmith faint. “Dagna—you’re phenomenal, truly. I don’t deserve you.”

“Oh, fiddle that.” She beamed as Roslyn willed the blade back into its hilt with as much ease as sheathing a normal sword. “You have to test it out for me, obviously, as I’m not sure it’s totally sound. I’ve got a few ideas for an upgrade, but I think this should do the trick for now.”

Roslyn nodded, though inwardly she vowed not to encourage the dwarf’s more…exotic ideas. She was still fielding complaints from the soldiers who had tested out one of Dagna’s armor runes which had caused their breastplates to turn to ice and shatter upon impact. 

She thanked them both and left, eager to test the blade out of prying eyes. The courtyard was clear, as most of the Inquisition was taking their midday meal. The quiet was nice, comforting, as she examined the belt Dagna had attuned to hold the bladeless hilt with a kind of magnetic attraction. The sky was overcast and the air smelled of snow, but she didn’t mind. The cold was refreshing, and helped to offset the undercurrent of nerves running through her veins. 

She’d been holding herself so tightly the past few weeks, trying to put on a clear, calm facade so people would stop worrying about her, that she felt like she was about to burst. 

_One of these days,_ she told herself as she waved off the sentries posted at the edge of the bridge to the valley, _I’ll ask Bull to teach me how one disguises one’s emotions._

It might be nice to not have every person who looked at her know that she was hurting. 

Hurting wasn’t the right word, but she didn’t know how else to describe it. She was worried about Solas, of course she was, but it was all tied up with everything else—Isahn, Adi, the Inquisition itself. She couldn’t unravel it enough to know why she felt like she was fighting a constant ache in her chest, why she wanted to actually _fight_ something to distract her from her own insignificant problems. Coryphea had all but vanished, taking her entire army and that blasted archdemon with her. She couldn’t risk traveling farther than the Bannorn in the fear that Coryphea might strike at the Inquisition while she was away, so she hadn’t been able to close the rifts pulsing out there in the wider world. She could sense them—unfixed and faint, only noticeable if she stopped moving and allowed herself to remain still for more than a few moments. She was useless in Skyhold, attending meetings and training and sitting on her ass while the world slowly slipped into chaos. 

In her darkest, guiltiest moments, she wished something would happen to break this long stillness, even if it meant throwing her Inquisition directly into its path.

This waiting was worse than anything. 

The clearing where she had begun taking Adi was clear save for a few drifts of snow, the only signs that anyone had disturbed it that of an animal moving through and snapping twigs. She stared at the ground, hard-packed dirt, mostly frozen even so deep into summer. 

The memory of another clearing, not far from where she stood, of black, pebbled sand and boulders hewn from the surrounding hills surfaced in her mind. The quarry would be buried now, swallowed under a mountain’s worth of snow.

A sad smiled pulled at her lips. It had seemed so much simpler then, wanting to get out of view of prying eyes, to do something rather than be cooped up in her tiny cabin. 

_The more things change, the more things stay the same._

She took off her boots and shrugged out of her worn leather coat, letting the brisk chill snap her back to the present. The white stone pendant hung beneath her shirt, jarring as she tried to recreate her first happy memory she’d made after the Conclave, but she kept the amulet on. 

Lifting the hilt, she flexed her grip, and activated the rune. 

The blade shimmered and vibrated as she moved it, carving through the air without resistance. She went through a few simple exercises, getting a feel for the arc and flow, for its weight. To her delight, she found she could treat it the same as any other sword if she kept in mind the slight licks of power that glanced off it and adjusted. 

After half an hour, she stopped, the first traces of sweat staring to collect in her lower back and at her temples. Her body hummed with the sword. It truly felt like an extension of her aura. 

Clenching her jaw, she pressed her hand gingerly against the edge of the blade. 

To her surprise, the energy shifted to allow her hand to pass through. It would not cut her, no matter how hard she willed it to remain sharp. 

“Clever dwarf,” she muttered, frowning incredulously. On a whim, she crossed to the nearest tree, delivering a firm, two-handed slice across the bark. 

The energy cut a clean two inches into the bark. The edges smoked, glowing a faint red as if they’d been burned. 

Roslyn laughed, excitement bubbling up inside her. Now _this_ was a sword. She dropped into a crouch and spun, swinging her sword with more momentum. It seared through the rest of the tree with as much resistance as a sharp knife through cold butter. 

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” she muttered, rolling out of the way as the tree groaned and fell toward her. It hit the ground with a resounding crash, causing the other trees to quiver and shed pine needles down around her. 

She lay on the ground for a moment, grinning up into the cloud-covered sky. The blade sparked and singed the wet grass beside her, causing faint curls of acrid smoke to rise into the air. 

Pointing the hilt up over her head, she focused her mind. She felt the length of the sword, the confines of the power, just as she had practiced mapping the length and width of her staves. Her aura curled toward her, eager, patient, and filtered up over her hand. 

The bolt of arcane energy sped through the sword, bursting from its tip without resistance. White sparks shot up thirty feet into the air, dispersing against the grey sky with a dancing flurry before they faded like spent embers. 

She tilted the blade, marveling at the colors playing over the diamond-shaped gem set into its hilt. It wasn’t an opal, or not the same as her amulet, but it was beautiful—like a rainbow trapped within an opaque jewel. She should have asked Dagna what it was before she left. 

Lying on the ground, she tried getting the wolf’s attention. Her mind reached out, sensing its presence, seeing its outline clearly. The wolf simply looked at her, a faint question passing through their bond. 

_You’d think you’d be more excited about our new toy_ , she mused, trying not to let her eagerness filter through. 

A huff of warmth brushed against her face. Green sparks licked over her left palm, amused. 

“Just wait,” Roslyn murmured aloud, unable to help the relief she felt at having the wolf acknowledge her. “I’ve got ideas. Beautiful ideas.”

A feeling of adrenaline pulsed through her, followed by that weightless shift in gravity, the overwhelming surge of her own magic—and faded just as quickly. 

The wolf cocked its head at her. 

She grinned. “Something like that.”

Dropping her hand, she released the energy blade. Without the humming buzz, the clearing reasserted itself. Wind danced over her chest, colder where her sweat had bled through her shirt. The clouds moved slowly over her head, greys bleeding into white and purple in some places, rippling with the weight of the coming storm. 

_I thought you might have decided you were done with me_ , she thought, hating how pathetic she sounded, even in her own mind. 

The wolf rumbled, settling down and resting its head on her stomach. It should have been heavy, with how large it was, but she felt nothing, just the faint inkling of its presence in the physical world. This high up, she could picture it more concretely. She wondered if she might be able to will it into existence, just like the blade, but the thought was gone as the wolf huffed. She felt something like admonishment through their connection. 

Perhaps it didn’t want to live in the real world. Perhaps whatever in-between existence it held while it lived in her palm was preferable. 

Her left hand lifted slowly, the anchor pulsing in the dim light. She frowned, seeing the faint impression of shadows coalesce around her fingers. It was like the moment after seeing the sun, when she closed her eyes and a bright image was imprinted onto the back of her eyelids—a double image. 

The Veil was more tangible higher up in the mountains, more fluid. She could sense that, but to see it moving around her fingers, drawn to the glyph on her palm…

“Anchor,” she mused, clenching her left hand into a fist, as if she might grab hold of the threads of the Veil and pull them taut. “Maybe Coryphea wasn’t so full of shit after all.”

The wolf snorted, and Roslyn felt its snout press down on her. Just for a moment, and then it was gone, but it was enough. She dropped her hand, sighing. _It’d be nice if you checked in every now and again. You had me worried._

The wolf raised its head, its pale green eyes glowing with a knowing warmth. Acknowledgement passed through their connection, and a small flicker of guilt. 

Roslyn closed her eyes and surrendered to a moment of silence. 

The pulse of the mountains echoed beneath her, answered by the shifting mass of the barrier protecting Skyhold. The world was more alive up here where the Veil was thin. She could feel it breathing, existing, so much clearer than she could down in the lower world. 

Her peace was broken after a few minutes, however, by the vibration of footsteps. _No rest for the wicked_ , she thought with a scowl, easing upright with the wolf. 

But the pace of the steps was too quick, too sharp, for a normal summons. 

She was upright and shrugging on her coat by the time the sentry found her. 

The woman’s face was bright red from exertion, her chest heaving as she clutched at her side. “Your worship, I’m sorry to disturb—”

“That’s all right,” Roslyn said, hopping as she pulled on her boots. _Oh, very dignified, Inquisitor_. “What is it?”

The woman swallowed, a look of unease passing over her expression. “It’s—Sister Nightingale needs you in the war room, Inquisitor. Scout Harding has been captured.”

 

~  ✧ ~

 

> _Your men have been captured.  
> _ _They will wait in my dungeons until you venture from your craven hold.  
> _ _Korth demands tribute.  
> _ _I relish sating him with Inquisition flesh.  
> _ _MEET ME, HERALD.  
> _ _Prove you are more than your empty titles.  
> _ _Prove that you are worth their deaths._
> 
> _— The RED HAND of the Mountain-Father_

Roslyn stared at the rough writing, carved into the damp, pulpy paper with runny ink warped by water. The war room was silent, the breath of everyone in attendance held. Waiting. Outside the stained glass, thunder roiled. The sky had yet to empty itself, but they could all feel the tension as clouds gathered over Skyhold. 

“Was there anything else?” she asked, keeping her voice low. 

Leliana folded her hands in front of her. “Apparently, the message was left with the severed heads of three of my scouts.”

Heat flared in Roslyn’s chest. Her jaw clenched. 

Leliana’s voice was smooth, but she could hear the sharp edge in it, the fury building behind her careful enunciation. 

“Maker’s breath,” Josephine whispered, setting down her portable desk. Her face had gone pale. “ _Why_? What have we done to provoke the Avvar?”

Cullen let out a dark laugh. “They’re Avvar. Maybe they got bored. Maybe they decided we crossed one of their gods. Maker knows, they’ve not much else to do down south.”

“They know better than to pick fights they cannot win,” Josephine countered, voice growing more solid as she talked, as if reason were helping her confidence. “Since the assault on the Bannorn in the Steel Age, they haven’t made such a blatant attack. They must realize what it would bring down on them.”

“Oh, they’ve made plenty of attacks,” Cullen scoffed, rubbing his chin in frustration as he paced. “You just haven’t heard of them. After the Orlesian occupation, the crown’s made sure to keep them quiet. Trying to present a strong front to discourage any more invasion attempts. Avvar raiding parties aren’t uncommon at all, but they rarely strike more than undefended villages, stealing cattle, or brides.”

_“Brides?”_ Josephine look mortified. “They _steal_ women from their homes?”

“And men too,” Leliana added, her face stony. “The tradition of spouse stealing is a common, well-celebrated practice within Avvar tribes. Only the weaker thanes allow their people to seek marriage outside the fold.”

“Weaker,” Roslyn muttered, straightening and throwing the crumpled threat onto the war table. She was trying hard not to join Cullen in his pacing. “Not weak enough, apparently.”

“Our presence in the Korcari Wilds was always a risk,” Leliana said slowly. “There’s a reason the Ferelden crown leaves the Chasind and the Avvar alone, for the most part. These tribes know the swamplands better than anyone else. I daresay that’s why the Grey Wardens might choose it as a location to gather. It offers them protection found nowhere else in Southern Thedas.”

“You think there’s a connection?” Cullen asked, scowling.

“Of course there’s a connection,” Roslyn said harshly, backing away from the table before she tipped it over in her anger. “Coryphea massed her troops south of Haven—why not in the Wilds? Where else could she have hidden all those thousands of shoulders before she attacked us?”

She couldn’t stop thinking about who had been killed. If she had ever learned their names. If she would even recognize their faces. She’d sent these scouts to their death and she probably wouldn’t have been able to pick them out from a line of all the other soldiers and scouts now milling about Skyhold or the Grand Forest Villa. Each one of them had pledged their lives to her, and she couldn’t even be bothered to remember who they were. 

“Inquisitor,” Leliana started, her voice calm, “I realize you are upset—”

Roslyn silenced her with a look. She might have been surprised it was possible to silence her spymaster, if her mind hadn’t been screaming with guilt. “I’m leaving tonight with a small forward party, to see what really happened and figure out what we’re dealing with. If I need it, I’ll ask for support from the Grand Forest Villa.”

Leliana and Josephine exchanged an uneasy look, but Cullen nodded. “Avvar don’t respond to diplomacy,” he said even as Josephine opened her mouth. “They don’t understand anything except war. If this thane, this… _Red Hand_ , has issued a challenge, we have to meet it. Even if they are in the minority of tribes to be stupid enough to threaten lowlanders, others will follow. We could have another enemy nipping at our heels if we don’t beat them back soon.” At Roslyn’s questioning look, he said, “Lowlanders—it’s what they call people who aren’t Avvar.”

“Surely they aren’t as barbaric as that?” Josephine asked with a frown. “There has to be something else they want, something we can give them.”

Cullen shook his head. “They want _blood_ , Josephine. And they want to prove themselves worthy by challenging those they see as stronger than they are.” He met Roslyn’s gaze, an unwilling smile pulling at his mouth. “You should be honored. I’ve known Ferelden landowners who would have loved to meet an Avvar thane’s challenge.”

Roslyn grimaced, clenching her hands into fists. The wolf read her anger and guilt, watching her. It felt as if it were judging her reaction. 

“Would you consider waiting until I sent another group of scouts to determine the best course of action?” Leliana asked slowly, her eyes cold, assessing. “Storming into the Wilds without preparation could prove fatal.”

“No,” Roslyn said without thought. “I’m not sending anyone else in when it’s clear the area isn’t safe.”

She felt the tension rise, and looked up to find her advisors wearing matching expressions of pity. Did they think she was naive? Too emotional? Was she not allowed to be upset that her men were being killed while she was sitting here safe in her castle? 

They were _her_ people, and someone had decided to kill them to provoke her. Instead of running, or waiting, she would retaliate. It was time to stop sitting on their asses and prove the Inquisition could do more than survive. 

“Are any of your agents ready to leave?” she asked Leliana, forcing herself not to bristle at the look of disapproval on Josephine’s face. “I don’t want to travel with a group larger than ten.”

Leliana considered. “I have a man who hails from the Wilds, a hunter. Hall will know them better than anyone else. He is the best guide I can produce for you tonight.”

Roslyn nodded, lamenting the fact that Charter was still setting up Caer Bronach. She’d grown used to the taciturn elf over the past year, and save for Harding, Charter was the only one of Leliana’s agents she felt comfortable with. 

“Are you sure you want to keep your party that small?” Cullen asked, frowning. “I could muster a squad to follow you in a few hours.”

“I don’t want anyone knowing we’re coming.” And if it came to a fight, she didn’t want anyone else getting hurt. She’d do this with people she knew could handle themselves, and even then, she had no intention of losing anyone else. 

“The Chargers might—”

“I want the Chargers here, with you,” she said to Cullen, cutting him off. “I don’t like this. We haven’t encountered anything more dangerous than a few roaming demons in the last six months and suddenly there’s an Avvar thane taunting me out into the open?” The note rang of the same sneering superiority she’d heard from Coryphea, the same pompous bravado. “It can’t be a coincidence. I won’t leave Skyhold unprotected. It might be exactly what the Elder One wants.”

“And if this _is_ a trap?” Leliana asked. There wasn’t a challenge in her voice, but there was something speculative. 

It put Roslyn on edge. 

She tried to smile, but it felt raw, sharp. “It wouldn’t be the first time.” Cullen and Leliana seemed to appreciate her attempt at humor, but Josephine continued to stare down at the war table, unease writ plain across her fine face. “Coryphea’s underestimated me before. Underestimated _us_. I’m more than willing to prove her wrong again.”

 

~  ✧ ~

 

Her party was small—Cassandra, Dorian, Sera, Hawke, Varric, Rainier, and Isahn. All of them were unusually quiet, even Dorian, who had thought she was joking when she asked him to join her on a rescue mission heading into the middle of a swamp, and Hawke, who had never once in his life found a reason to shut his mouth when he could be talking. They were led by Hall, who turned out to be surprisingly congenial for one of Leliana’s agents. For the most part, he kept to himself, humming absently when the nighttime sounds grew overbearing as they made their way quickly down and out of the mountains. 

Roslyn hadn’t been able to sleep much, and had taken to holding first watch. Four days after they’d left Skyhold, as they were just starting to enter the Hinterlands proper, she sat with her back to their small fire, staring out into the night sky as it grew dark. 

She felt the stares on the back of her head, the concern from her friends. But she didn’t meet them. She didn’t acknowledge them. The creeping feeling that their lives were now held in her hands would be easier to bear if she didn’t see it every time she looked into their faces. 

Isahn gave no sound of his approach before he crouched next to her. The only reason she knew it was him was by his smell—crisp leather and tobacco, the faint hint of something sweeter she’d started to suspect he kept tucked away out of view, an herb pouch, perhaps, or a Dalish oil of some kind. Her senses had dulled in the month she’d spent in Skyhold, as if the wolf had dampened them to save her from being overwhelmed. Now, out in the wild, it was like she’d been shrouded in mist, and the sun had burned it all away. Everything was sharp, crisp. The outlines of the world brought into clear focus.

“May I join you?”

She popped another mint leaf into her mouth, chewing to keep her mind awake. 

It helped her stay alert on watch, but she disliked the reminder of someone else who had tasted of peppermint, who had so recently traveled down this same road with her only to watch his friend die in his arms. 

“You’ve never asked for my permission before,” she murmured.

“You were always overeager. I find myself missing your intrusions.”

She said nothing, rolling the pulp of the leaf over her tongue, focusing on the bitter taste. 

“Why did you invite me to come with you?”

She swallowed, running her gaze over the distant cliffs, letting the wolf sharpen her sight so she could see everything in perfect, crystalline vision. The stars pricked the night sky, nodes of light in the dark expanse far, far above and beyond her understanding. “You’re one of the best fighters I’ve ever seen. You’re quiet. You’re quick. I trust you to handle yourself, whatever we find. And until recently, you never asked too many questions.”

“And yet you seem so displeased by my presence.” A flicker of his aura caught beside her, a small snap of flame. The smell of his tobacco came next, pungent and sour. He chuckled. “Indeed, you seem to be cringing at my very presence.”

“I’m cringing at the reek of that shit you’re smoking.”

He didn’t put it out, though she noted that he seemed to be trying to breathe it away from her. 

“Can you see in the dark?”

She frowned, looking at him. “What?”

He was still crouched, casually puffing on his elegant pipe, head tilted in his consideration of the same vista. The ropes of his hair fell down freely over his shoulders, their silver beads winking in the faint light. “I’ve never known humans to be very good at keeping watch. They miss the smallest details with their poor vision and wandering minds. And yet you seem to be more than proficient. I wonder if that’s down to your better heritage.” His eyes flashed as they caught the reflection of the embers in his pipe. “Maybe you took a bit more from your elven parent than the _shemlen_ who raised you.”

His words echoed in her mind, dragging up a strange resistance in their wake. The Trevelyan crest sat in the pocket of her coat, a kind of denial in his words. She felt a moment of conflict as part of her wanted to deny any shared heritage with the mother who’d abandoned her, but even so…

Not for the first time, she couldn’t help but wonder if her eyes reflected the light as well as his. 

Before she could respond, the air around her shifted and the darkness took shape. A familiar aura signaled the arrival she’d been expecting for days. Her mouth twitched in amusement as Cole popped into being before them both. 

“She looks like her,” he murmured from underneath his hat, voice resonant and soft. “You don’t know why you didn’t notice—”

Isahn moved like a flash of lightning, one moment crouching in a relaxed position, the next one of his swords erupting to life as he lunged for the young man. 

Roslyn reacted in the same instant, throwing up a wall of force to counter his swing, though she needn’t have bothered. Cole was, perhaps, the only person fast enough to dance away from Isahn’s slash. 

The two men were pushed back from each other to either side of Roslyn where she still sat on her fallen trunk, the wall of force gentle, but firm. Cole looked down at the edge of his shirt where it smoked with mild surprise. Isahn crouched, his expression flat with readiness. 

“Stop,” she said sharply, ready to send another wave of force to push Isahn back. She stood, stepping between the two and facing her mentor with a ready stance.

He didn’t look at her, but he did wait. 

The entire camp awoke in various states of alarm as their sleep was disturbed by the sounds of fighting. Cassandra was the first to jump upright, sword in hand, her seeker’s power swelling uncomfortably, followed by Hall and Rainier. 

More silence.

“That is a demon, _da’shyl_ ,” Isahn said slowly, his voice low. 

“No,” she said, throwing the rest of her mint leaves back into the fire. “That is a Cole.”

Behind them, Cassandra made a sound of frustration as she sagged in relief. “Cole, you should have told us you were following.” She ran a hand through her sleep-mussed hair, scowling. “Maker’s mercy, I thought we were being attacked.”

Roslyn fought a laugh. Seeing the great Cassandra Pentaghast looking rumpled and half-asleep would never get old. 

Cole looked up, glassy eyes confused as they focused on Cassandra, and then Roslyn. “Oh. Right. Sorry.”

A smile pulled at Roslyn’s mouth. “We’re going to have to talk about paying you if you keep insisting on following me into missions.”

Cole’s expression soured. “I don’t like money. It’s dirty and tastes of rust.”

A loud, ostentatious groan signaled Dorian’s entrance into the conversation. “Is that the scary shadow boy? Has he joined our intrepid party as well?” Roslyn looked over to see his hair sticking out from where he’d fallen asleep. He hadn’t even bothered to fetch his staff. _Useless_ , she thought affectionately.

“You wait for the letter to come, knowing it will break him, knowing it will be your fault.” Cole cocked his head. “But it was never your fault. It still isn’t.”

Dorian blinked and smiled blearily. “Lovely as always to see you, Cole.”

Varric laughed before he slumped back down onto his bedroll, shaking his head. “I forgot how fun camping with you lot was.”

Hawke, beside him, was sleeping just as soundly as before, even with Sera’s continual snoring on the other side of the camp. 

The others were slower to relent, watching Cole with distrust and not a small amount of incredulity. Cassandra sighed and sheathed her sword—Roslyn grinned when she realized she’d been wearing it in her sleep—walking over to Rainier and Hall to explain the sudden appearance of the thin, spectral young man with the overlarge hat. 

But Isahn had not dropped his stance, nor had he lowered his flaming sword. 

“Cole is another member of my party,” Roslyn murmured, not liking the intent in Isahn’s eyes. “He is not a demon, nor is he a spirit. We don’t quite know what he is, other than a friend.”

Beside her, Cole twitched, and she looked at him in concern. He watched her with an expression that pricked at her heart, the shadows retreating somewhat from his face. 

“You don’t know what he is,” Isahn said, voice cutting, “and yet you allow him to travel with you?”

Roslyn gave him a sharp look. “If I started requiring detailed explanations of my companions’ pasts, intentions, and characters, you would not be here either, _hahren_.”

Isahn straightened, his eyes locked on Cole. The flames on his sword were slowly doused, however, and so she took that as a good sign that he wasn’t about to cut the young man’s head off. 

“Solas has worked with him for the better part of year without complaint,” she added.

Isahn actually laughed, the sound rough and rather disconcerting. “That comforts me not at all.” He considered, and finally sheathed his sword. Stepping forward, he dropped his voice low, the warning clear in his expression. “Stay out of my mind, _banal’rasin_.”

“He might be able to help you, you know.” Roslyn watched Isahn, turning over Cole’s words now that the immediate danger had passed. She knew better than to speculate at anything Cole plucked from other people’s heads, but she couldn’t help it. “He’s good at picking apart what’s troubling you. Helping you heal.”

Who had Isahn been thinking about when he’d been looking at her?

He gave her a sharp look, but his expression shifted slightly as he turned, weariness settling over his shoulders. For a moment he looked his age—old, tired, nothing like the sharply poised warrior who had taught her how to control her magic. 

His jaw clenched, as he _tsk-_ ed in a casual manner at odds with the distant look in his eyes. “He is too late for that, _da’shyl_.”

Roslyn watched Isahn bend to pick up his discarded pipe, tapping the last embers onto the fledgling fire, and return to his bedroll at the fringes of their camp. 

“I didn’t mean to make him angry,” Cole murmured.

She sighed and patted his arm. “I know, Cole. I know.”

Cassandra relieved her of watch after that, her eyes tight with curiosity. She’d never been good at hiding her interest or concern, but she hadn’t needled Roslyn at all over the past month. It was driving her slowly mad, she knew, not to know why Roslyn was being distant, but she’d held her tongue. 

It was more than Roslyn deserved to have a friend like Cassandra. Truly. 

Roslyn would need to talk to her at some point. She was only worried. _Maker knows I’d be, in her position_. 

She lay awake for at least an hour, staring up into the night sky and listening to the sounds of her companions breathing or snoring. She even heard faint mumbling from Dorian’s bedroll.

Part of her wanted to slip away into the night, to leave without the rest of them to rescue Harding on her own. She didn’t know what she was leading them into, though she struggled to think what kind of threat the caliber of her party couldn’t handle. They were the best fighters, mages, and marksmen she’d ever met. Even Rainier and Hall, whom she’d never seen fight, seemed more than capable at keeping themselves alive. 

They were all capable. 

So why did she feel like she was leading them to their deaths?

The Fade snuck up on her slowly. One moment she was staring up at the fixed, black sky, the stars firmly placed in their proper positions. The next, swaths of purple and blue dust moved across the vibrant firmament—dancing, twirling. 

She let the sensations wash over her, let them drown out her own fear and anxieties. 

Only to freeze. 

Sitting up, she saw that her table stone was larger than it had ever been, practically as big as the war table. Veins of orange and purple cut through white marble, ropes of thorny vines crawling up and over the edge smoothed by time. 

A trail of light hovered in the air—dark green, wisps of black and navy peeling off it like smoke. 

Heart pounding, Roslyn reached out with her finger, and felt the familiar swell of Solas’s aura. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know I said I would post once a week, but I'm a flighty and part of me just wants to start posting whenever I can. So maybe expect quicker updates for a while. I might change my mind again, but for right now, I'd rather just get this ball rolling. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who is still reading. I know I've been bad about consistency. I just hope the wait was worth it <3


	36. Gracious in Defeat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["In Dreams" by Ben Howard](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KB_AQXtcQyU&t=0s&index=38&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S)

Roslyn stared at the thread, _feeling_ its direction, its intent. There was nothing subtle about the way it hung there, waiting for her, but there was hesitation in it. It wasn’t reaching out for her, beckoning. It was waiting. 

Warm fur brushed against her side. She shivered, but the wolf remained, nosing at her cheek. 

The thread came from Solas. She could feel that as readily as she could feel the Fade shifting around her. With it came a question, an outstretched hand. 

Why then was she so afraid?

She had searched for him those first nights after returning to Skyhold. Without knowing how to find him, she’d simply sent her mind out, groping, grabbing at nothing. It had been fruitless, and the fumbling attempts had left her feeling pathetic, especially since it was half-hearted. She more than anyone could understand the need for privacy in the face of grief, for space, for distance. She’d given up. Solas knew more about the Fade. Of course he would be able to hide from her, if that was his wish. He could disappear and leave her with no trail to follow. Perhaps that was the reason she’d moved through the last month preparing for the worst, for the long, protracted blow his absence would leave in his wake. Half-flinched, jaw clenched. Waiting for some final sign that he wasn’t coming back. 

It seemed, however, that that was no longer the case.

The wolf nudged her again more purposefully, a flicker of amusement filtering through their connection. As if it said, _Go on, then._

But she didn’t move. 

For weeks, she’d been pining for him, aching for him, in a way she hadn’t truly allowed herself to acknowledge. It had been petty, and selfish, but after opening herself, after laying her feelings bare, he’d left. 

Yes, he’d lost a friend, and yes, she understood, but he _had_ left. 

And no matter how much she tried to rationalize it, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he had left _her_.

Just as he’d always said he would. 

“This is stupid,” she muttered, sliding off her table stone, brushing at the vines. They crunched beneath her hands, giving off a pungent, rusty sweetness that pulled at something in her mind. She brushed it away. Half the things in the Fade held memories these days. If she stopped to work them all out, she’d never reach Solas. 

The thread flickered once as it undulated in the air, and then went taut, a pulse of brighter teal rushing over its length to guide her forward. She left the echo of her Hinterlands camp, stepping into the flowering, summer-heavy trees, only to find herself in the golden wood. In Wisdom’s golden wood. 

She wasn’t surprised, somehow knowing that this was where he would be. But it was different now, not the silent, humming forest of knowledge she’d passed through before. No arcane glyphs spiraled through the air. No golden dust drifted past her on ancient currents of wind, carrying secret whispers, things that only the plants and the soil which held them might remember. The trunks were grey, not lustrous and red. The flowers were wilted, flaking off into ash as she brushed past them, stirred into nonexistence with the faintest breeze. 

The forest had died along with its heart. She couldn’t shake her guilt as she remembered the golden majesty of this place. As if she had been the one to kill Wisdom, through inaction, ignorance. That it was somehow her fault.

Roslyn stopped, and the wolf stopped with her. She reached out to the trunk of the nearest tree, fighting the tightness in her throat, the burning behind her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, pressing her palm into the dull bark. 

Color bloomed at her touch. Red bled out from her fingers, painting the trunk with the shade which still hung in her memory, and then darkening to as best a reenactment as she could make. Russet brown danced slowly to the ground, where the grass crackled again with life. Bursts of purple and white blossomed amidst the dead wildflowers. Prophet’s Laurel sprung up between gatherings of Andraste’s Grace, adding to the lavender and daffodils, the golden-green sheen of new life spreading out from her bare feet. 

She hesitated, pulling her hand away, but the wolf rumbled in affection, drawing her gaze. It was watching her with a kind of pride, a pleasure which seemed somehow older than it should, deeper. 

“You think she’d like it?” she murmured, afraid of an answer.

The wolf’s eyes sparked with a brilliant flash of meadow green, and Roslyn felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

Some piece of Wisdom had found its way into her wolf, she was sure of that now. What she didn’t know was how big that piece was. 

Solas’s aural thread trailed through the forest, and Roslyn followed. Color bled back into the world slowly, but enthusiastically, as if the Fade itself wanted to return to what it once was, and had been for millennia beyond counting. It wasn’t the same, she could tell—the branches of the ancient trees moved too much in the soft wind, the colors were too bright, the smells not as sweet or layered. There was too much movement in the world. Not enough silence. But it was close. As close as she could recall.

She felt the clearing approach with a strange sense of foreboding. Her emotions were confused, twisted, wrapped up in an anxiety she couldn’t shake. The Fade rippled around her, reacting to her attempts to control herself, and she felt the distant stirring of spirits, though none approached. This wood was protected by something. Or someone.

What would she find in Solas? Would he be broken? Was this his way of saying goodbye? Had he summoned her here, in the Fade, because he had no intention of returning to her in the physical world?

The wolf stopped, but she walked on, her feet moving of their own volition. Her body didn’t care that she was terrified, that she’d been fighting the conclusion of this reunion for the last month, hoping for something which she knew better than to hope for. 

The clearing opened up before her, as grey and lifeless as the rest of the forest had been. Her color had stopped at its edge, as if sensing her fear. It probably _did_ sense her fear, she realized. _The Fade reflects our own preoccupations,_ Solas had told her so long ago. 

She steeled her heart, lifting her gaze to follow the last length of the dark green thread. 

Solas sat in the center of the clearing, head bowed, elbows propped on his knees, on the same old trunk Wisdom had sat on the last time she’d been here. But there were no glittering strands of gold and spring green to spin arcane calculations above his head. The sky was not spiraling in a celebration of color and fantasy. The clearing itself seemed vast, miles and miles stretching between the edge of the forest and the dead trunk on which he sat. An impassable gulf of sorrow. 

The clearing was cold. Dead. Grey. The air was still. She could feel the utter lack of sensation just beyond the ring of her own influence. The heavy weight that turned the Fade sluggish. Silent.

She remembered seeing through his memory in Haven—the solid, oppressive air, the grey tinge to the surrounding world.

Was this how Solas lived?

Her breath caught in her throat, and the sound seemed to echo across the clearing. 

Solas lifted his head, no surprise in his eyes, and met her gaze. 

She didn’t mean to let her emotions overwhelm her, but it was like a dam broke in her chest. A ripple went through the Fade before she could control herself, color and light spiraling into the air around her. Where it touched, stalks of flowers bloomed raging and violent, breaking apart into golden dust just as quickly. The color of the trees turned a vibrant red, pulsing and writhing with life. 

It ceased just as quickly as it began, leaving a tangled mess at her feet. 

Heat flushed along her neck and cheeks. She cleared her throat, ready to apologize, or back away, or—

A chuckle broke the silence. 

Solas smiled faintly, mouth twitching. 

It happened so slowly, she didn’t quite know where it started, but the clearing softened. Stalks of grass shed their grey, blossoming slowly into small, delicate flowers of blue and silver, Forget-Me-Nots and Lamb’s Ear. Splashes of white Snowbells circled in regular, neat spirals. Threads of smoke drifted up from the ground, coiling like snakes, glinting with hints of deepest emerald. 

The tension eased bit by bit, until the distance between them was no longer vast, but slight—ten feet, barely. She could have crossed it in a few strides. 

She answered his smile with one of her own, her relief so thick, so wild, she was having a hard time not turning the entire clearing into a forest of sparking bees. A few buzzed by her ears, lazily drifting through the cleaner grasses near Solas. 

“Just when I think I know what I’m doing,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper even as it leapt around the clearing. 

Solas’s eyes were bright, fixated on her, his face opening slowly like the flowers at his feet. 

“You came.”

His voice rang with disbelief, turning the words soft, supple. 

It took a moment for her to respond. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

His expression flickered, brow furrowed. Before he could answer, she felt the wolf pad close behind her. 

Solas didn’t move, but his expression tightened, his eyes pulled from hers to study the wolf. 

Roslyn had no idea what to say. How could she explain her certainty that the wolf had taken something of Wisdom when she died? Solas had no love for her wolf. He might see it as an insult to his friend’s memory, another brick laid in the wall of her binding a spirit to her will, a wall which would separate them, eventually. 

The wolf brushed against her cheek as it passed, sending her a thread of reassurance. She could do nothing but watch as it approached Solas, stepping through the drifts of smoke, reminding her of the beast which had nearly overwhelmed her in the beginning. Though, she noticed with a small smile, that it took care not to step on any of the flowers. 

Solas held perfectly still, watching the wolf with an unreadable expression. Whatever he was feeling, he kept it hidden, but she could see the tension in his hands, clasped together so tightly his knuckles stood out white against his pale skin. 

The wolf stopped a few feet away from him, cocking its head in consideration. 

For a moment, the clearing was still, frozen in a tableau that might shatter at the faintest disturbance. Solas, seated on a dead tree trunk, elbows on his knees, expression remote. The wolf, its white and grey dappled fur rustling slowly in a soft breeze, head bowed to look directly into Solas’s eyes. 

Roslyn held her breath, not daring to blink. 

And then the wolf turned to look at her, before it padded away into the forest. She followed it with her gaze, glancing back to Solas to see some sign of what had passed between them. 

The tension left his body and his expression turned pensive as he too watched the wolf leave. “It carries something of Wisdom with it.”

There was no accusation in his voice, no judgement. Merely…acceptance. 

“I think so,” she murmured, chancing a step forward into the clearing. 

He looked back to her, brow creasing. “It makes sense. Your wolf is young, and Wisdom is… _was_ old. In her unmaking, her multitudes would have seeped out into the world. Your wolf was the nearest denizen of the Fade.” Understanding colored his expression, and he straightened. “I don’t believe there was any ill intent, Roslyn. On anyone’s part.”

“Intent means little when you trail havoc in your wake.”

He let out a weak laugh at her small echo of his own admonition to Rainier and Aeducan, inclining his head. “In this case, I think your wolf can be forgiven. It is not to blame for Wisdom’s death.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Solas.”

His smile softened, turned sad. “Neither was it yours.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said anyway, hating the grief in his eyes, the regret which tinged the very air. 

“Thank you.” He took a deep breath, voice strengthening. “It is I who should apologize. I left without expressing my sincerest gratitude for what you did. You had no reason to try to save her, but you did. You _tried_ ,” he shook his head, a brilliant, incredulous smile pulling at his lips, “to save a demon, after everything you’ve been through.” 

The way he looked at her, as if she were the most improbable thing in the world, as if he had stopped trying to understand, and was simply marveling at her existence…

“Thank you, Roslyn,” he repeated, his lilting voice growing uneven, rough. 

“Of course.” It sounded feeble to her ears, but she couldn’t manage anything more. The feeling working its way up her spine was making it hard to think. She turned, needing to move, to do something with her body before it broke apart in a shower of sparks, and leaned against the nearest tree. It was solid under her hand, the bark rough, grounding her in something real. She dug her nails into it to anchor herself even as gold and white flowers unfurled slowly around her bare feet.

“Are you…” What could she ask? He wasn’t all right, of course he wasn’t. But she didn’t know what else to say. The distance between them might have grown passable, but she couldn’t think of a way forward. “Did you find what you needed?”

It took him a long time to answer. She finally looked up, unable to bear the silence. 

He watched her with a look of longing so stark it wiped all other thoughts from her mind. Perhaps it was the Fade, amplifying her emotions, and his, but she couldn’t think past the searching ache in his eyes, the same ache that seemed to echo inside her.

Something solidified behind those storm blue eyes, determination entering the clench of his jaw. “What were you like,” he started, voice sure and carrying, “before the anchor?”

She blinked, confused by the change in subject. Perhaps it was too difficult for him to speak of Wisdom. Perhaps he needed a distraction. In any case, it seemed a strange shift in topic, but she indulged him. “I…was angry. Stubborn. Hurt. A self-righteous shit who rejected responsibility. Honestly,” she added, a weak laugh breaking through her words, “you would have hated me.”

A slight smile pulled at his lips. “I doubt that.”

“I don’t. I seem to recall a few early conversations where we butted heads rather spectacularly.”

“That does not mean I wasn’t fond of you.” He paused. “Quite the opposite.”

Her stomach did a small, erratic flip. _Calm down. You already knew he liked you._ Fondness had never been their problem. “Why do you ask?”

“I wonder sometimes how the Circle managed to produce someone as wise and bright as you.”

The compliment fell flat. Her eyes narrowed. “Are you determined to spoil every nice thing you say about me?”

“Can I not commend you for rising above the people who bore you?”

“You can. It doesn’t mean I have to appreciate the commendation at the expense of people I care about.”

It took him a moment, but a look of conciliation flickered over his face. “You are right. I can see why you might take offense to such a thing.”

She laughed and arched an eyebrow. “Are you admitting that you’re wrong? Has the world begun to spin the other way round?” 

His eyes fixated on her smile, not even trying to hide his attention. “I am capable of such a thing. No matter how loathsome.”

For a moment, it was easy. She was just a girl in a forest, trying hard not to tip her hand to the boy who stared at her like she was the most marvelous thing in existence. It was as simple as falling. 

His expression dimmed. “I never asked… The Tranquil.”

The moment wilted, sinking into the ground with only a whimper of regret. 

“They were taken from the Rebellion,” she said slowly, forcing her voice to be steady. “Something about the nature of their…condition makes them more susceptible to the kind of magic the Venatori were trying to use. Alexius explained it to me, and Dorian tried to translate, but…” 

She’d had a hard time paying attention to anything the magister had said. The whole conversation, Roslyn had tried to remind herself that she had pardoned the old man, that his sentence had already been given, that anything more would hurt Dorian, which she could not do, and his crimes against the Tranquil were no worse than his crimes against the Rebellion as a whole. 

But she hadn’t been able to stop seeing the spiral brand above Jonas’s green eyes. The moment of horror and shock when he had looked at her without any recognition. 

“You’ll have to ask him yourself if you want more details.”

“That is not why I asked,” he murmured, taking in her expression with a knowing sympathy. 

She swallowed the lump in her throat, trying to hold on to that wonderful sense of giddiness she’d had only a few moments before. 

“Who did you lose?”

Her eyes burned as she held his gaze. She had no right to this pain, not when he was freshly grieving. But the Fade wouldn’t let her shove it aside. It wouldn’t let her ignore the memories washing up and bursting to be free. 

She took a shaky breath, blinked back tears. “His name was Jonas.”

It wasn’t the shattering she’d expected it to be. It was more like a steady rolling of clouds over a field, releasing water in a slow, gentle fall. 

Solas’s expression softened. “Jonas,” he repeated. 

She fought the urge to shove it back inside, the roiling conflict of all her ingrained defense mechanisms shrieking as she barreled forward, heedless of the pain that might come later. 

He was asking. And she wanted to answer. The rest was inconsequential. 

“When I was sent to the Circle, I had no idea how to interact with other mages. I was terrified of myself, of what I’d become, and I…didn’t get along with anyone.” She exhaled, frowning. “I know you don’t understand what it was like, but I had nothing at the Emerald Cove except for the Chant. Becoming a mage took that away from me, and I was—lost.”

“I think I am beginning to understand,” he murmured, picking his words carefully.

Warmth threaded through her chest, making it easier to continue. “Jonas was the first person who had ever tried to get to know me. He was sweet, and charming, and he cared about me. He was my first friend, the first person who ever loved me.”

“You loved him.”

It took her a moment to work past the lump in her throat. “I thought I did,” she murmured. “I was young. Stupid.” At his questioning look, she continued, “Mages aren’t supposed to fraternize, but it’s hard to enforce that rule. A hundred or so people crammed into a tight space—people are going to have sex, fool around, fall in love.” She couldn’t help the hard note creeping into her voice, the anger simmering behind the pain. “Apprentices, however, are easier to control. Before a mage is Harrowed, she can’t be trusted to control her emotions. The templars are well within their rights to stop two teenagers from sneaking around having sex. It’s a rule they take very seriously.”

Understanding flashed in his eyes, no doubt remembering her caged answers to Varric’s questions in a tavern now buried under ten feet of snow. “You were Harrowed because the templars caught you together.”

She nodded, the old pain resurfacing just as sharply as it always did, though she could handle it better now. She was stronger, maybe, or perhaps she knew it was coming, and she was simply ready. “They knew we couldn’t pass the test. There are full grown mages who fail nearly a third of the time. Usually, the young ones are just killed, as mages who are turned Tranquil too young aren’t particularly useful to the Chantry, but they needed to make an example of us. Jonas was innocent, but I was the unwanted bastard of the old lord chancellor. Apparently my father hadn’t been kind to the templars, so they wanted revenge.” Her jaw clenched. “I don’t know why, but they couldn’t simply reprimand us.”

The memory flashed at the front of her mind, and she felt the Fade try to answer. She pushed it back, unable to see it again, like she’d seen it when Envy had pulled the memory from her mind. The air shifted around her, blurring, and then returning to normal with some effort. 

“Fuck,” she exhaled, frowning. “That’s—unsettling.”

“Focus on me if you need to.” He didn’t rise, but his hands settled on top of his knees purposefully, flexing. “There are no spirits close by. You need not fear their influence.”

She stared, tracing the gold dusting of his freckles, the dimple in his chin. “They put him under first. I didn’t see it happen, but… Have you ever met a Tranquil?”

He shook his head, eyes hard. 

“It’s like…the person they used to be has been replaced with a stranger who doesn’t feel, doesn’t care. They’re the perfect servants. They kept our quarters, they made our food, they handled the Chantry’s lyrium. One minute, Jonas was reassuring me, telling me that everything was going to be all right, and the next, it was like he was gone, except he wasn’t. He never left. He was just…erased. By the time they put me under, I was broken. I can’t remember my Harrowing, not really. It was just—wrath, fury. Pain. I felt like an open, ugly wound.”

He leaned forward slightly, staring at her with a frank acceptance, as if a piece of the puzzle of who she was had fallen into place. “You bested your demon.”

“Easily.”

His mouth twitched, though there wasn’t any humor in his eyes. “It is always the old who underestimate the young, who think that time and knowledge make them wiser. But there is strength in youth, in anger. Strength in fighting.”

Her brow arched. “You have some experience with the strength of fresh anger?”

He smiled, the gesture hinting at a side of him she’d seen only a few times before. A reckless kind of anticipation. It made him look young and wild. “I was not always the venerable scholar.”

“Yes, I remember hearing something about a young elf who consorted with demons and eschewed polite society.”

“I believe you called me savage.”

She shrugged. “You’re the one who talked about running wild and rejecting traditional knowledge. I made an assumption.”

“A correct one,” he leaned back, stretching out his legs with a casual air, “though you might be disappointed to find I still maintained all the proper decorum when necessary. My education came from many places, not simply the spirits who sought me out.”

“Was…Wisdom one of your teachers?”

His eyes darkened with pain, but they held hers, sadness filtering through the air. “She was my first and best teacher. I cannot remember my life before her, and I struggle to picture any life after her.” His jaw clenched. His throat bobbed. He seemed to be fighting his own swell of emotions, evident from the slight shiver in the air around him. “I was also isolated as a child. Not for the same reasons, but…”

She held her breath, waiting. Each new word was a revelation, a drop in an endless ocean only now being disturbed. 

“I was orphaned young,” he continued, the words coming sharp and fast, as if he were speaking quickly to get them out before he thought better of it. “Taken to live with strangers who did not know me nor appreciate the way I had lived. I was—lost,” he met her gaze, “confined to a land I hated, longing for a family ripped from my life before I could truly appreciate them. I had determined to flee, to run into the wilderness and live apart from the world, if only to keep what small memories of them I had from spoiling…when Wisdom found me.”

His eyes went distant, wistful. The crease in his brow the only sign of his grief. “She convinced me I could do better where I was. That I could change my life without abandoning one for another. Seek what I wanted without venturing off on my own. Without her, I might have vanished from the world entirely. I owe her everything.”

“Were you two…” Roslyn started, not because she was jealous, or curious, but because she felt his grief. It wasn’t the same as hers, and she could tell there was more he held back, but some part of her reached out to him at the simmering pain in his voice.

His gaze refocused on her, softening. “Not in the way you think.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know, Roslyn.” Again, that filtering of certainty strengthened his gaze, gave it weight. “I would not hide that from you.”

Her heart pounded, racing forward to meet the brightness in his eyes. It was all she could do to hold on to the tree at her back. 

This…dancing, around what they were, this sharing and baring of souls without a firm place on which to stand—it made her feel untethered. As if she hung above the clearing, watching the scene play out between them and wishing there were something she could say that would not seem callous or selfish. 

But that thread between them was there, and it was alive. 

He owed her nothing, and neither did she owe him anything, but _Maker_ did she want to. She wanted this to mean more than shared comfort between friends. She wanted the space between them to close and the pieces of her heart jagged and raw from their breaking nearly a year ago to seal. 

She _wanted_ him. But she wanted him to want her too. More than anything. 

“What will happen to this place?” she asked, grasping at a random thought to cut the silence. 

He took a moment to answer. “It will fade, in time. Wisdom fueled it, and without her presence, it will return to its state of natural nonbeing without a will to shape it, like the rest of the untouched Fade.”

“I can still feel her, though. It’s…different, but there’s something here.”

He nodded, a sad smile in his eyes. “Wisdom was an incredibly powerful spirit. She wrote herself into the Fade here, made it hers just as readily as some make small parts of the waking world theirs. Some part of her will always remain, just as some part of her will now remain in your wolf. But the woman I knew, the woman you met—that person has died. Something might one day be born here again, but they would not be my friend.”

The Chant had no real answer for what happened to the soul of a person after death. It presented a kind tale about joining the Maker to sit at his side for all eternity, but Roslyn had not believed in such a fantasy for a long time. There was no answer, and no way to find one save crossing into the Void and coming back. 

This peaceful transfer seemed kinder, even if it was an empty kind of kindness. She couldn’t decide if it comforted her or not. 

The silence expanded between them, filling all the space with its weight. She didn’t drop Solas’s gaze, but neither could she speak. 

And then he stood, and took two slow steps toward her, and her thoughts honed to the movement of his body. 

“You should know that I did not mean to stay away this long.”

Heat whipped up her spine, and she had to fight to keep her expression calm. Meaning he wanted to tell her he had no intention of returning sooner? Or…the opposite? “Did you get into trouble?”

He shook his head slightly, eyes never leaving hers. The new sunlight played over his solemn face, its normally sharp angles softened by the warmth. It turned his eyes bright and clear. “I have not spent much time in the Fade since joining the Inquisition. Time works differently here, and I seem to have lost track of it.”

She nodded, though part of her was alarmed at the casual mention of losing nearly a month of time, as if it could be thrown away so casually. “Did you go very far?”

“No,” he murmured, taking another step toward her. The space between them was closing at an alarming rate, and it seemed her body could not decide whether that was a good or bad thing. “Just somewhere quiet,” he continued. “Isolated. I did not want to be disturbed.”

“No spider-filled ruins, then,” she said before she could stop herself. _Maker’s tits, you sound like—_

He smiled, and her mind stuttered. 

“Thankfully, no.” He was close enough to touch now, the faint whispers of his aura catching at the edges of hers, almost playfully, searching. Always searching. 

“I was worried,” she murmured.

He stopped, brow creased as his eyes traveled over her face. 

“You don’t have to be—” She looked down, working past the lump of burning coal in her throat, gathering again the wild boundaries of her composure. “If you need more time, I understand.”

She was so focused on keeping her aura in check, on trying to separate the Fade’s strengthening of her emotions from what she actually felt, that she didn’t see Solas reach up. 

His fingers brushed her chin, and she froze. His thumb traced the line of her cheek, his touch achingly soft. She looked up, and all her worrying fluttered away like moths in the light. 

Lips parted, gaze drinking her in like a man parched, there was no hesitation in his expression. No hedging. No pained denial. His brow furrowed ever so slightly as the pad of his thumb rested on the bow of her upper lip. 

“Time,” he started softly, his voice humming down her spine, “I am finding, is more precious than I ever believed it to be. I have wasted too much already.”

His aura washed against her like a gentle wave. Peppermint broke over tongue, tasting of sharp, sweet longing, of the fresh scent of unmaking, and her lips parted as he dropped his thumb and pulled. He shifted closer and her spine straightened in answer, that whispered certainty pulsing at the very heart of her. He smelled of the erudite smoke curling up over his back, of the forest reborn from ash. Where he had not beckoned, not begged, before, he was laid bare now. More than an outstretched hand, more than a hesitant flutter of fingers, he was _asking_. 

Voices echoed behind her, and for a moment, she wondered if they’d both been wrong about there being no spirits nearby. But the tug at the small of her back came next, and she winced as the waking world warred for her attention.

Solas lowered his hand, thumb tracing a line over her chin and down her neck with intent, moving slowly, intently. “There appears to be some commotion on your end.”

Her chest rose and fell sharply, the conflicted sensation of her body waking in the physical world, and the heat of his touch as it trailed lower—just a hint, so faint she might even be imagining it, if not for the way his eyes followed.

A familiar voice cut through the Fade, giggling after a string of words that would make even the heartiest soldier blush. 

One side of Solas’s mouth canted up. “You’re camping with Sera.”

In her riot of emotions, some part of her rose to meet that playful tease in his voice. “Maybe she’s in my room,” she breathed.

“How scandalous.”

“Josephine will lose her mind.”

“Give the ambassador more credit.”

“She’s a bit cross with me right now. I think bedding Sera might push her over the edge.”

His brow arched, such a mundane gesture for a man with his hand inching closer to the open collar of her shirt. 

“Harding and her scouts have been captured in the Korcari Wilds by Avvar. I left with a small team a few days ago. Josephine would have preferred me to ask nicely for them instead of taking them back.” She said it so quickly, it sounded almost silly, but the recollection of the reason she’d left Skyhold, the guilt and the drive, clashed distractingly against the lust pulsing in her core like an awakened beast. 

Something like amusement danced in his eyes, now tracing the line of her neck. His head tilted to the side. “I cannot imagine why you objected to that idea.”

She hummed a laugh, fighting the firm, insistent pulling at the bottom of her stomach. Every time she blinked now, the Fade grew more ethereal, less real. “Fuck,” she muttered, pressing back against the tree as she tried to keep herself present. 

“Where are you going?” Solas asked, letting his hand finally rest at the base of her neck, pressing gently into the hollow above her chest. His touch pulsed with a thread of his aura.

“Harding’s last report came from somewhere called the Fallow Mire.”

“It sounds like a lovely place.”

“Solas—” Her jaw clenched as, with one last tug, she could do nothing but let herself go. 

In the confusion, she thought she felt something brush against her lips. 

The waking world reasserted itself with a snap, just in time for her to see Sera’s scowling face hovering right over her. The elf reached down to prod at her with a stick. “I think she’s d—”

Roslyn grabbed her wrist and jerked her sideways, letting a bit of arcane energy thread though her grip. Sera went flying over her, landing on her ass on the other side of camp and toppling into the bushes with a shriek. 

Roslyn sat upright, heart thudding as she tried to reconcile her new, old surroundings. The impression of Solas’s aura was still ghosting over her skin, heating her chest, making it hard to focus on anything except the thudding between her legs. 

For a moment there was silence. Then Varric said dryly, “She’s finally joined us. Ancestors be praised.”

She pushed her sleep-tangled hair back from her face, blinking sharply. “The fuck is wrong with you all? Why have you been shouting at me?”

To Varric’s left, Dorian crossed his arms, looking amused. “We’ve been trying to wake you for the better part of fifteen minutes. It’s an hour past sunrise.”

She blinked, noticing the light for the first time. The sky was a pristine blue, the birds chirping merrily over her head. Every one of her company was armed and ready, and all of them were watching her with various amounts of confusion. 

Cole was crouched a few feet away from her, staring intently. 

She flushed, before remembering that he could no longer read her thoughts. _Thank the Maker._

“Why are you breathing so hard?” he asked, head cocked as he studied her. “Did you have a nightmare?”

It took every amount of willpower to get to her feet slowly and step casually away. “No. No, I’m fine.” Isahn, frustratingly, was sitting behind Cole, watching her with a hooded, scrutinizing gaze. She could avoid both of them at the same time. Good. 

Cassandra’s brow was cinched so tight, it looked as if her face had been carved that way. She stood in Roslyn’s path, hand reached out in concern. “Are you well? We can—”

“No, _no_ , I’m fine. Strange dreams, that’s all.” She waved her marked hand, willing a few green sparks to dance before her as she made for the river just out of view of camp. “The anchor. Demons. I was…fighting demons. Big demons. If you’ll all excuse me.” She needed a minute…to collect herself. To shake off the feeling of spectral hands dancing over her sternum. 

For a moment the camp was silent, until Dorian let out a high, startled laugh. “Oh, sweet Andraste, that’s _wonderful_.” He sucked in a sharp breath. “You absolute—”

She whipped her head around and pierced him with a look that should have sent him running, but merely made him double over with laughter. “Keep your mouth _shut_ , Dorian Pavus, or I will send you back to your beloved homeland without so much as a mule to save your precious sandaled feet.”

From the other side of camp came a triumphant yell. Sera had finally extricated herself from the bushes with Rainier’s help, the old man trying to hide his grin, unsuccessfully. “I’m gonna _kill_ her. Just cause she’s full of holy shite, doesn’t mean—”

“I’m going to wash up,” Roslyn said, heat rising quickly up her neck to scorch her cheeks. “I want you all ready to leave in five minutes.”

Dorian continued to laugh over Cassandra’s earnest questioning, while Rainier seemed to be doing his best to hold Sera back from launching herself after Roslyn. Somewhere in the middle of all the noise, Varric sighed dramatically.

Hawke’s voice carried over the lot, “I don’t understand what all the fuss is about. Who _hasn’t_ awoken from a sordid night in the Fade with a desire demon to find the world wasn’t as flush with perfectly-shaped dicks and been a little put out?”

_I’m going to let them all get sucked up into a rift_ , she thought with a scowl as she stripped down to her smalls and dunked herself into the cold, chilling, blessedly frigid river. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of those chapters I've been waiting to write for like three years. It's kind of surreal to be writing it now. <3


	37. Pieces from the Flood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Take It Down" by Hundreds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EhC8fVV7L8Q&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&index=39&t=0s)

The best that could be said about the Fallow Mire was that it had finally encouraged Dorian to stop dropping veiled hints about her nighttime excursions in the Fade. 

Indeed, the entire party seemed to have lost any interest at all in her improved mood, except to glower at her when she suggested scouting yet another portion of the bog they had not yet searched for some sign of the Avvar. 

Roslyn thought they were all being rather glum about their situation. Yes, they were traipsing through mud and half-decomposed corpses every day while the local populace continued to withhold any information they might be able to gather about the Avvar hiding somewhere deeper in the swamp, but really, it wasn’t _that_ bad. 

Her good mood lessened somewhat when Sera finally enacted her revenge and she had to spend an hour one morning walking around partially naked until she could find her clothes—hidden rather ingeniously inside a tree stump sitting in the middle of a leech-infested pond.

Three days after arriving in the territory Harding had marked out as the Fallow Mire before her disappearance, nine days after they’d left Skyhold, they were no closer to finding the Inquisition’s missing scouts than they were to finding a unicorn. Roslyn had wanted to approach the small village at the edge of the swamp immediately, but Hall had advised her to lay low and allow him to make his own inquiries. “Wilds folk can be skittish around outsiders,” he had told her, his face pleasant as he efficiently skinned a hare before dinner one night. “Especially those bearing the burning eye of the Seekers. No offense, m’am,” he added to Cassandra when she frowned, “but your organization hasn’t exactly been kind to us southerners. Wouldn’t be surprised if they hear ‘Inquisition’ and chuck themselves into the nearest lake to be free of us.”

Roslyn had relented, even if the rifts she could feel building in the Veil were far too close to the village for her comfort, and done her best to follow Hall’s lead as he picked through the swamp, trying to uncover traces of their missing scouts without alerting anyone else to their presence. Harding’s camp had been easy enough to find—ransacked with most of their equipment just left to the elements. A few wyverns had attempted to claim the camp as their own, but they were scared off easily enough. 

It was the walking corpses that were causing them trouble. 

“I can’t understand how so many remain animated,” Dorian said at breakfast on the fourth day. He was hunched over his steaming bowl of porridge, staring daggers at their meager fire as it flickered in the soft rainfall. Clutching two woolen blankets around his shoulders, he shivered and wiped condensation from his face. “There would have to be veritable _packs_ of necromancers roaming the swamp to uphold so many curses, and yet we haven’t even stumbled across another soul in two days. It makes no _sense_.”

Roslyn grinned, pulling her hood up as she licked the inside of her bowl clean of any remaining scraps. It tasted like giant drool, but it was filling. She couldn’t say that she missed camping rations, but there was a simplicity to the experience that she enjoyed. “Brain like yours, I’m sure you’ll figure it out in no time.”

He shot her a dark look, the edges of his mustache smoking as rain hit his enchantment to keep it pristine. “You’re mocking me.”

“I am not.”

“I take back every nice thing I’ve ever said about you.”

“All _two_ compliments? I’m gutted. Truly.”

Hall had left at first light, or what passed for first light in this Maker forsaken bog, to scout near the village again. Sera had mentioned something about gathering frogs, and Rainier had been kind of enough to offer to supervise her, though Roslyn secretly wondered if the old man simply enjoyed the girl’s company. He certainly seemed to laugh more than anyone else at her manic jokes. Hawke had yet to awake, while Isahn and Cole had both disappeared. For how much he seemed to distrust the young man, Isahn certainly shared his penchant for only turning up when it suited him in a dramatic fashion.

“Sparkler, please,” Varric groaned, huddled into his own coat so thoroughly she could barely see his face. He cradled Bianca to his chest as if it were a child who might catch a cold from the constant rain. “ _Your_ complaining is cutting into the _total_ amount of complaining allotted to our party and I insist on saying something about the dogshit food.” He scowled. “Scratch that. Wouldn’t even shove this shit on dogs.”

“Stop calling me that,” Dorian snapped, throwing his porridge onto the ground with a sigh that would have been more at place at an Orlesian opera house. “I don’t even understand your system for naming people. I rarely employ electricity in my spells and it can’t be the most fundamental aspect of my person. Can’t you think of something more robust? At least call me ‘firecracker’ if you’re going to stick with pretty explosions.”

“That’s not how it works,” Varric mumbled. “I don’t know how it works. That’s what my brain thought up at the time and I can’t change it now. You’re flashy and usually come with a headache, and aren’t nearly as impressive as you think you are. Thus, Sparkler.”

“Don’t worry too much, Dorian,” Roslyn leaned over to take Dorian’s bowl before it could fill with too much water. It was still hot, and she was still hungry. She’d take what she could get. “My nickname is even worse than yours.”

“What’s wrong with Red?” Varric asked, affronted.

“You couldn’t be bothered to come up with something more imaginative than the color of my hair. Perhaps I’m offended.”

Varric snorted. “I call you ‘Red’ because that’s the color your eyes turned the first time I met you.” He shot a scowl at Cassandra where she was standing at the edge of their camp keeping lookout. “You facing down the Seeker reminded me of the old tradition of bullfighting in Antiva.”

Roslyn grinned. “Which one of us was the bull?”

“I can hear you,” Cassandra called dryly over her shoulder. “And I believe I hear Hall’s signal.”

“Wonderful.” Roslyn got up, patting Varric on the head as she passed him. “Maybe we can actually do something instead of sitting around this fucking—”

The air around her sparked as the anchor responded to a nearby tear in the Veil. The tear she’d felt coming on for days now, which inconveniently sat directly next to the village.

“Rift!” she shouted, not bothering to keep her voice down. They could deal with their broken cover later. “Near the village!”

“Inquisitor?” Hall’s voice echoed over the quiet rainfall. “It’s—”

The rest of his words were lost in a crack of thunder overhead, followed by the sounds of shouts drifting over the swamp, but she ran forward anyway. “Stay here,” she called after her. “I can handle the demons on my own!”

“Roslyn—” Cassandra’s voice faded as she sprinted forward, meeting Hall at the edge of the small wooden bridge connecting the island their camp was on to the larger one which held the village. They’d been able to stay so close because of the constant rainfall, and the fact that no one in the village seemed willing to stray farther afield than their small fishing hole. 

“Is anyone hurt yet?” she asked Hall as he fell into step beside her.

“Not yet, but I saw a few demons break through before I left.”

She nodded. Her anchor could sense the demons. Five distinct shapes moved across her consciousness, none of them too powerful. If she could get to the rift, she might even be able to pull them back before anyone got hurt. The longer they remained in the physical world, the harder it would be, but she was getting stronger with every rift she closed. If she could get there in time…

The wolf rose with a growl, lending her speed and sight, washing the dark bog in a sheen of illumination and clarity. 

_Thanks_ , she thought with a grin as she raced forward, pulling in front of Hall and vaulting over the small huts on the outskirts of the village. Her heart raced, her blood thudded, and her mind flew forward. It was almost like flying. 

The wolf snapped its teeth in response to her excitement, adrenaline flooding their connection. 

Green light flashed in front of her, and she hit the ground in the center of the village. People were swarming all around her over the manic shrieking of demons—two terrors, three shades, and the imprint of something larger on the other side of the Veil she couldn’t yet feel. 

She sent two bolts of arcane energy into the shades closest to her, snapping their spines and sending them flailing against the ground. Lifting her hand, she let out a pulse of undirected energy, calling the other demons to her. The terrors shrieked and lunged, abandoning the villagers as they fled into their homes and away from the rift. 

One terror swarmed into the ground, and she felt its trap as it pooled under her feet. She jumped just in time, moving out of range of its grasping claws, and flipped. She grabbed its cold, slimy limb, pulling the force of its blow and sending it careening into its companion. The sound of their crunching impact made her grimace, but she ignored it and turned for the last shade.

Only to see a carving arc of red fire cut it down before she could so much as ready a spell. Isahn stood behind it, his black dreads whipping and gleaming in the reflection of the rift. 

Swallowing her frustration, she lifted her hand and let the wolf connect. 

Despair flooded through her mind, but she held herself back, standing on the edge of a contained maelstrom as the rift sucked the last vestiges of the demons back into it. The tear sealed, a metallic grinding filled the air—and then all was still. 

Roslyn forced herself not to glare at Isahn as she turned to the villagers. Most of them hadn’t even had a chance to run for cover. “It’s all right. I mean you no harm.”

Hall jogged into the center of the village, panting. “Fuck, Inquisitor. You’re _fast_.”

“You’re _her_ ,” a woman choked, hands shaking as she pointed from a dripping doorway. “The Herald of Andraste.”

As if Roslyn had no idea who she meant. 

“I am,” she said, keeping her senses alert for any more villagers who might find her presence alarming. One could never be too careful. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to attack her after she’d saved their life. “Is there a leader I might speak to, a mayor, or someone to represent you?”

The woman blinked for a few moments, and then stepped forward. The man at her side tried to pull her back, but she shooed him away. “Who else is going to figure this shite out?” she snapped.

Roslyn grinned. Slowly, more villagers peered out from their houses, a few even tipped up an overturned boat they’d hidden under during the demon attack. The ones left standing in the square seemed to be almost put out by her appearance. After the initial chaos, she got the feeling they’d rather her go away. 

“I’m looking for a group of Inquisition scouts who passed through recently. I’ve had word that they were captured by nearby Avvar.”

“Avvar?” the woman scoffed. A few of the others made similar signs of displeasure. “No, your worship. Them’s not Avvar in the old fortress. Don’t know who they are, but Avvar ain’t bothered us in my life.”

Roslyn frowned, looking to Hall. “Are you sure?”

Another man spit at the ground. “Right sure. Them’s some kind of demon worshippers in that fortress. They’ve what been raising the dead.”

Hall shook his head, telling her without word not to argue. She could guess that these people might not be too eager for a debate. “When did these demon worshippers take up in this fortress?”

“Three moons ago,” the woman said, performing some kind of gesture across her chest and forehead. A gesture to ward off evil, perhaps. “That’s when the dead rose, sky started raining demons down on our heads.”

It made sense. Even with the Breach sealed, the Veil in this place was weak. Any kind of powerful magic would tear it without much effort. But if these kidnappers weren’t Avvar, why did they sign their name with one of their gods? 

And what did they want with her?

“Don’t forget the ground shaking,” another villager called almost as an afterthought.

Roslyn frowned, wondering what else on the Maker’s green earth could go wrong. “The ground’s been shaking as well?”

“Once every couple of weeks.” The woman spat onto the ground, as if to reprimand it. “Been getting more frequent. Stick around a while. Bound to feel it soon.”

_What the fuck did I walk into here?_ she wondered, meeting Isahn’s gaze with unease. _One thing at a time._ “I’ve got a small party with me,” she said, raising her voice so that everyone heard. “We’re camped on the other side of the adjacent island. Would it be all right if we shared a meal with you today? To learn more about these people in the fortress?”

The sound of slight falling rain filled the silence. “Aye. Suppose that’d be fine,” the woman said almost reluctantly. “Though you’d have better luck asking the two Avvar camped over the hills to the north. They’ve been trying to put the dead back to rest.”

The man at her side scowled. “Haven’t been doing a very good job of it, mind.”

Roslyn’s brow raised. So the Avvar _were_ involved? “Would you consider telling us where they are?”

“Can send my boy to go get the one. He’s been teaching the little ones how to fight.”

“Ah. Well. I would appreciate that, then.” She cleared her throat, feeling awkward. “If you don’t mind?”

The woman turned without another word, presumably to go retrieve her son.

Roslyn watched her go, vowing to leave this somewhat roundabout questioning out of her report to the council. Leliana would never let her live it down. 

The villagers dispersed just as quickly, leaving her and Hall standing rather awkwardly with nothing to do. 

Hall gave her an apologetic glance. “Told you, your worship.”

Roslyn nodded, directing him to get a few more of their party. She didn’t want to move into the village, not when it seemed her presence was not wanted, but she wanted to be here when these Avvar arrived. Just in case it was a trap. 

Isahn slowly walked to her side as he flicked ichor of his sword, grinning. “You run a tight operation, _da’shyl_.”

“You’re the one who begged me to join,” she said sourly, crossing her arms as she swept her gaze over the village. If this was a trap, it was the most casual one she’d ever seen. “And I believe I told you to stay at camp.”

“Was that directed at me? Here I thought you meant the other children you brought with you.”

“One of these days, _hahren_ , I’m going to grow tired of your playful disobedience.”

Isahn stared at her, his expression going flat. “If you’re looking for blind obedience, _da’shyl_ , find yourself another soldier.”

He walked away before she could respond, vanishing into the mist of the bog, leaving her alone in the center of the village with nothing to do but look like a fool. She felt the wolf watching him as well, the slight thread of its curiosity pulling her after him. 

_Your guess is as good as mine_ , she thought, setting aside questions about her morose trainer as the sounds of her companions floated to them over the chirping bog.

 

~  ✧ ~

 

The village tolerated them to wait while the old woman’s son sent word to the pair of Avvar staying close by that the Inquisitor wished to speak to them, but that was the extent of their good will. All of them were watched closely, and none of the villagers offered to hand out any more information than was absolutely necessary. Hall didn’t seem bothered by this. In fact, he was surprised they were allowed to sit in the middle of the village and wait. “People I knew as a kid would have tried to chase you away with sticks,” he said cheerfully, grinning around at the village. “Surprised someone hasn’t tried to shove us into a puddle yet.”

“Why did I ever leave Minrathous?” Dorian asked glumly. 

“Come on, it’s not all bad,” Hawke said jovially, throwing an arm around Dorian’s shoulder and giving him a smile that might as well have have been an invitation for all its subtlety. “You wouldn’t have met me if you stayed in Minrathous.”

“Stop it,” Roslyn said, giving Hawke a firm look. Back at Skyhold, she was more than happy to tolerate his blatant bed-hopping, but she wasn’t about to accept it when they were all staying in the same, small camp.

He sighed dramatically and removed his hand slowly, with an inelegant caress across Dorian’s shoulders. “Where did your trainer run off to?” He stretched, grinning. “Maybe he’s more fun than you lot.”

Roslyn laughed so loudly she drew looks from the passing villagers. “Oh, please, make sure I’m there when you proposition him. I want to be the last thing you see before he skewers you.”

“You _wish_ you were getting skewered,” he said darkly, flipping his staff in the air ostentatiously only to balance it on his finger—a habit of his which was not helping ingratiate them to the villagers. “Not all of us have to be celibate just because the Inquisitor can’t get laid.”

Roslyn watched him leave, unable to ignore the idea that perhaps, one day soon, that might no longer be the case. _Focus on saving your people_ , she reminded herself. _Worry about Solas later._

She hadn’t seen him in the Fade since the Hinterlands. Every time she’d tried, she could find no trace of his aura. Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, he clearly wanted to be left alone. Again. 

Which was fine. She knew where they stood. Sort of. 

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” Dorian muttered. 

She looked up, confused to find a forced aloofness in his expression. “Do what?”

“Shoo Hawke away from me.”

Her hands paused in their cleaning of her boots—it was a fruitless task, as there was no way to avoid the mud in this place. “Please tell me you aren’t considering—”

“Andraste’s grace, _no_.” He laughed, but the sound was tense, hitched. “I mean, Hawke is…you know.”

“Probably riddled with all sorts of fun diseases.”

He frowned. “I don’t know. For all his peacock-ing, he’s an adept blood mage. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s figured out a way to protect himself from the more salacious infections.” At her pointed silence, he rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, dear Roslyn, I’m not about to go opening my veins willy nilly. He hasn’t converted me to heresy just yet.”

“Dorian,” she said slowly, not liking his clipped tone, “if you want to get involved with Hawke, you don’t need my permission. He’s probably a good lay. Just be careful. He’s…like you said, a bit of a peacock. A dirty peacock. Who frequently brags about his sexual exploits. Just be prepared for a bit of a mess, is all. I mean, I get it. Sort of.” She grimaced. She did understand. Hawke could be charming when he wanted to be, and when he wasn’t drunk off his ass or showboating, he could be a pleasant conversationalist. “Honestly, I pictured you for more of a debonair type. Wealthy sailor, or a lessor lord, maybe. Exiled prince. But Hawke would be…entertaining. Probably. If you’re looking for that sort of thing.”

Dorian’s eyes cut to her, face going still. His mouth opened, and then closed. She’d never seen him so taken aback before. The effect made him look rather unguarded, amidst all his elegance and poise. “You mean that?”

She tugged on her boot, scooting closer to him. “Yes, I think Hawke is an idiot and not good enough for you. You could have your pick of all the eligible bachelors in Skyhold, even with your terrifying and unfounded reputation of Tevinter nastiness.” She smiled, noting the tense set of his shoulders, the rather startled look in his eyes. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one who needed some encouragement in the affairs of the heart. 

_I sound like Cassandra_ , she thought with a small chuckle.

“All I’m saying is that if you start bedding the Champion of Kirkwall you might end up in one of Varric’s romance novels. Even your ego might take offense at the artistic liberties he decides to employ. Also you really could do _so_ much better.”

His gaze softened, his mouth twitching into a hesitant smile. “You really don’t care, do you? About,” he added at her frown, “my taking up with…other men?”

It took her a moment to realize what he was truly asking. “ _Oh._ Oh, Dorian,” her heart twisted at the fragile crease in his brow, the shine in his eyes which had nothing to do with his somehow perfectly preserved cosmetics, “of course not. Has someone been giving you the impression your preference in men is something to be worried about?” She felt a rush of anger on his behalf. “Because that is absolute bullshit, and I would be more than happy to bash their head in. I’m the Inquisitor now. I might even be able to drown them in taxes for the rest of their life, if you’d prefer to raze a legacy. Josephine—”

“Roslyn, please settle down.” He laughed, shaking his head incredulously. “By the Maker, you sound as if you’re about to storm the very gates of Minrathous itself just to defend me.”

“I would,” she said without a pause. “I don’t know how far I’d get, but I’d be sure to leave them with a fond memory.”

“I have not a shred of doubt that you would give my country the firm spanking it needs.” He blinked and cleared his throat, looking away from her as he exhaled. “But you needn’t worry. I have no interest in getting into the Champion’s bed. I’m well past that phase of my life.”

“Good.” She watched him compose himself, or as much as he could compose himself amidst all the rain and muck of the Fallow Mire. He hadn’t joined the Inquisition because of her, she knew that. But he was here, following her, despite his obvious discomfort. He had supported her, when she thought no one would take her seriously, when she was terrified of losing her own mind. It meant more to her than she could ever convey. 

Tentatively, she pressed her hand to his cheek. He started and looked at her with wide eyes. “I am inordinately fond of you, Dorian,” she murmured, fighting past her own aversion to such intimate contact, “I’d storm the gates of the Black City if you asked.” She patted his cheek softly. “Never doubt that.”

It was strange, to think how quickly she had come to think of him as one of her closest friends. The idea that she even _had_ more than one person she considered a friend was strange, but to find a kindred spirit in this lovely dandy of a man, a man with courage and a surprisingly wide streak of heroism despite his own frequent arguments to the contrary, was almost inconceivable. 

The knot in his throat bobbed, and he blinked a few times. “You can be disgustingly sincere sometimes, did you know?” he said, voice hitched. 

“I did.” She cleared her throat of its sudden tightness. “I think I’m growing soft in my old age.”

“When we return to Skyhold, you and I will need to have a large bottle of wine to celebrate your oncoming senility.” His expression crumpled with disgust. “None of that sweet syrup you enjoy from Orlais, though. I might as well start teaching you what actual wine is supposed to taste like.”

She hummed in displeasure, dropping her hand. “We’ll see.”

“I will not give up on you yet, my friend. I’ll make an amateur _sommelier_ out of you yet.”

“Did you just sneeze?”

“No, I spoke Orlesian. It amounts to the same thing most of the time, but—”

“Inquisitor,” Hall called, waving where he stood at the edge of camp, “we’ve got company!”

Roslyn straightened, helping Dorian up when he got stuck in the mud and nearly lost his balance. “Let’s walk into another trap, shall we?”

“Oh, just like old times,” he said with a grin, throwing off his blanket with a flourish and running a quick hand over the end of his staff. Purple sparks fluttered around its tip like moths, as if to tease Varric where he was watching them both with a fond smile. “I’m feeling reckless.”

She grinned as Hawke and Isahn joined them. Cole was moving around somewhere, leaving the rest of their party to wait back at camp. If this was a trap, she wouldn’t risk everyone’s lives. 

That thought sobered her, and the smile dropped from her face. 

Hall met them at the edge of the village, watching the surrounding swamp with keen eyes. “No signs of an ambush. Don’t think the villagers care one way or the other, honestly.”

Cole drifted out of the shadows, idly fumbling with a bundle of red and black plants Roslyn was fairly sure were poisonous. “Sky-Watcher comes to read signs, but Raven-Eye comes to right a wrong. They need your help, and you need theirs. It’s a fair trade.” He looked up at their silence and held out his full hands. “Sera needs blood to catch the right kind of bees.”

Roslyn looked around at a resounding bark of laughter. Isahn was grinning, his smile wide and slightly disconcerting. So now he _liked_ Cole, did he?

“I can tell you’re a people person,” Hawke said idly, watching Cole in fascination. “I’m very good at reading people, and I think you’re just incredibly personable. Truly.”

“Enough,” Roslyn muttered, feeling protective of Cole as he watched Hawke move past him with wide, glittering eyes. “Come on,” she added when Cole remained frozen.

“He thinks I’m a person,” he murmured, face lighting up. 

Before she could reply to _that_ heartbreaking comment, she felt a strange pulse go through the air. It wasn’t the displacement of energy she usually recognized in the rifts, nor was it the telltale awakening of an aura as a mage casted close by. 

It felt uncomfortably like the suppression templars employed with lyrium. Except that there was no buzzing hum of music, no sweetness coating her tongue, no panic rising to the familiar threat. 

Everyone paused, except for Hall, who continued to walk forward unaware. 

“Well, that’s odd,” Dorian muttered, sliding out his staff casually. 

Hawke also shrugged to release his staff, tipping the lethal end of his blade toward the ground in a ready position. 

Isahn’s hands hovered over the swords at his side, meeting her glance with a frown. 

“This swamp is full of surprises,” she murmured.

The wolf rose, scenting the air, bringing to her the overwhelming stench of the mire, the discordant rattle of insects and sloshing water—and then a soft chanting, a thread of spiritual energy which came along with the smell of herbs and a campfire. 

Over the rise in an embankment, on the other side of a long crumbled wall, stood a huge bear of a man. Or she suspected he was a man. She couldn’t quite tell under the hood of thick hide. 

When he lowered that hood and revealed a face painted in lines of stark clay, however, her stomach flipped. 

He could have stepped out of her dream in Val Royeaux. 

His paint was blue and white, his furs in better condition, his weapons less crude, but he was a giant of a man, just like those ancient warriors who had followed the Alamarri mage. Among the mist of the Fallow Mire, more cloying and dense, but just as enshrouding, she had the uncanny feeling that she had stepped into the past. 

Dorian must have sensed her tension. “Something wr—”

The Avvar cut him off with a booming grunt. “Which one of you lowlanders is the one they call ‘Herald’?” His voice sounded like the deep bass of a gong, rushing over the swamp like a storm. 

She unclenched her jaw and stepped forward, reminding herself that she was the Inquisitor, that she was here to find her people, to bring them home. She didn’t have time to get wrapped up in her own flights of fancy. “That would be me, serah. And what—”

“Follow me,” he said without preamble, and turned his back on her. 

For a moment, she didn’t move. “All right then,” she muttered, throwing a look back at her companions. All of them had drawn their weapons now, except for Cole, who was still idly arranging his macabre bouquet. “This is all turning out less climactic than I thought it would.”

“It usually does,” Hawke mused, slicing off the tops of the nearest tall-grass with his staff blade as if he were a bored child. “Although, I have to say that the lack of spiders falling from the sky has made my working with you more peaceful than I expected. Maybe it’s just a Kirkwall thing. Beasties tend to drop onto your head when you least expect it. Keeps you on your toes, though.”

“Do you think about the things that come out of your mouth before you say them?” Dorian asked as they moved forward, watching Hawke with a clinical kind of concern. “Or do they just tumble from your lips like happy surprises?”

“A bit of both,” Hawke said as Roslyn turned and followed the giant Avvar further into the swamp. “Most of the time I’m distracted by pleasanter thoughts, like fucking dragons.”

“Is that in the expletive or carnal sense?”

Hawke’s grin turned practically feral. “Again, a bit of both.”

Roslyn’s mouth twitched, but she kept her mind focused. The chanting grew louder, along with the definite presence of spirits. Behind it all was a rift, she was sure of that much, but there was something blocking it, a barrier. 

The Avvar made no move to say anything further, though he walked jauntily enough, as if he were not at all bothered or concerned with their presence. _Man could pass for a qunari with those shoulders._

A flash of green lanced out of the sky and her anchor responded with its own wave of sparks. “Right,” she jogged to meet up with the man, letting her barrier swell up to encompass her, just in case, “I’m not sure if you realize—”

He stopped abruptly and turned around. She just managed to keep her footing in the slick mud before she smacked into him. 

This close, she could make out some of the features under his paint—a broad nose, a bushy, white-flecked beard, startlingly bright pale blue eyes. In fact, they looked a bit like Cole’s. 

“The Lady of the Skies called you here for a reason, Herald,” he said, voice booming into her face, practically shouting. “Tame the rift in the heavens. Heal her, and we shall talk.”

It had been a long time since anyone had given her orders, and his abrupt demeanor chafed. The discomfort left a bad taste in her mouth. Had she grown used to her freedom so quickly?

She peered around the man’s wide shoulders, and her brow raised in alarm.

Seated before the rift was a woman with long, curling blonde hair. She was painted in white and blue and green, the Fade’s coloring flashing bright against her face and the pounded, intricate metals she wore around her neck. It looked faintly like armor, but there was an elegance to it, a coarse beauty that gave Roslyn the impression of shifting scales. 

Her hands were held open on her crossed legs, palms face up, and she was muttering. It only took Roslyn a moment to recognize the language. She couldn’t understand it, but the sounds were the same slow-rolling tongue she’d heard in her dreams of the Alamarri mage in Val Royeaux, the blood mage who’d bent over a severed dragon head in Lady Shayna’s Valley. Out of the Fade, she felt the strangeness settle over her like a shroud, and she heard it for the melody it was. 

The small kernel of light in her chest flashed once. She fought the urge to clutch at her amulet. 

Around the mage, and around the rift, swirled spectral rings of light. Unformed, untethered, Roslyn knew them at once to be spirits. _True_ spirits, without form or corruption. Waves of purpose and strength washed over her as they passed, followed quickly by something which stirred the adrenaline in her blood, something like courage.

“My sister has been studying the tear,” the man said. “She is tiring. If you are what you’ve claimed to the world, fix it.”

She gave him a sharp look, some of her curiosity flagging at the command. “Your _sister_ has her spirits blocking my connection. I won’t force them back into the Fade. It would hurt them.”

“Steady, Herald,” a high, carrying voice called. “The gods hear you, and will retreat.”

Roslyn turned to the seated mage just as she lifted her hands. An aura swelled, a confusing mixture of beating feathers and the slow, sweet smell of molasses, and the spirits stilled. Three distinct shapes coalesced before the rift. She had the distinct impression that all three were watching her, before they drifted slowly up into the air. 

“You’re just going to let them go?” Dorian called in alarm.

The mage turned her head to him, eyes still closed. “The gods come and go as they will, lowlander. I _let_ them do nothing.”

The rift flared to life at the spirits’ departure, and Roslyn bent her will to it. She sensed the swelling of demons, but connected before any could come through. The wolf sealed it easily, regarding the Avvar mage with curiosity. The woman was still seated, but without her rhythmic chanting, the atmosphere felt uncomfortably barren. More bands of pounded metal ringed her bare arms, two on each forearm and one above her right elbow. 

“You’ve tamed the sky,” the man said, his voice lifting in surprise. “Lady be praised, you are truly blessed by the gods.” He smacked Roslyn across the shoulder, activating her barrier with a burst of force. He stumbled back, ass hitting the mud with a loud thud, enough to shake the ground. Before she could so much as turn, he laughed. “And you’ve got a will to match. Gods rejoice, you might be able to help us yet.”

“As lovely as this little test has been,” she said with a scowl, noting that none of her brave companions had jumped to her aid apart from Hall, who’d drawn his bow halfway before lowering it in confusion, “I’m not here to play games.”

“You are here for your people,” the woman said archly, rising to her feet with grace. “Now that we know you are no false pretender, we offer our blades and bones to help.”

Roslyn opened her mouth to respond, but any words she might have said died on her tongue. 

The woman had opened her eyes at last. One was a normal shade of blue, just like her brother. The other’s entirety was black as obsidian. 

Just like the winged woman. 

“That’s—terrifying,” Hawke muttered.

The woman did not look at him, keeping her unbalanced gaze on Roslyn. Her one black eye seemed to spear through Roslyn’s chest, to pierce that beating kernel of heat behind her heart. 

“I am Rhaella Raven-Eye of Stone-Bear Hold,” she said simply, her long, elegant face unyielding. “You are the Herald of Andraste.”

Roslyn forced the prickling feeling into the back of her mind, and nodded. “Those spirits were guarding the rift. Did you summon them?”

“They were gracious enough to aid me in my studies. The Lady’s skein has been torn, and many gods have seen themselves twisted from their true purpose. I am tasked with guarding the realm between,” a smile flickered over her face, causing her paint to twist ever so slightly, “and yet I have been largely unsuccessful.” 

She took a step forward, looking Roslyn over with a judging air. 

Hawke’s aura rose along with Dorian’s behind her, but she held out a hand. She didn’t think the Avvar mage meant her any harm.

Though she was much shorter than her brother, her stature was solid, thick. She had the commanding air of one used to leading. “Do you intend to continue serving the Lady?”

Roslyn’s brow raised. “I don’t know this god you speak of, but I speak for the Inquisition. I’ve pledged myself to closing rifts where I can, and ending the life of the one responsible for this chaos. That’s all.”

The woman cocked her head, a wry smile playing on her full lips. “You claim favor from Andraste, and yet you don’t serve in her name? Your god must be a strange one to allow such a casual dismissal of her gift.”

Roslyn’s jaw clenched as the last of her indecision regarding the woman’s eye wilted. “I’m not interested in explaining myself to a stranger, nor am I here to _serve_. I want to know why my people were taken and killed, and why I was summoned to this ass-backward swamp.” She stepped forward, staring down the woman. “If you can help me save my people, I’ll consider not declaring outright war on the Avvar for provoking my anger. And as you two seem to be alone, I would think carefully about how you choose to answer.” She let her brow rise in a challenge. “I’d be more than happy to display my _gift_ to you firsthand.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed, but she chuckled. “I knew the Lady would choose someone with teeth. I’m glad your lowlanders have given you a place of prominence. One wonders, sometimes, what the warm air will do to your flighty minds.” She took a step back, inclining her head. “I hope I do get to see your god-mark in action, Herald. Preferably not unleashed on me.”

Roslyn watched as the man got to his feet, grinning broadly, wondering if this wasn’t some kind of joke. Cole didn’t seem bothered. Instead, he was watching the sky with something like longing in his eyes. 

“Right, Herald,” the man boomed, propping his hands on his hips, “to the work of ridding this foul swamp of its infestation.”

“We shall join your camp,” the woman said without preamble, gathering up her things and looking at Roslyn expectantly. 

It took Roslyn a moment to adjust from having just threatened their lives to welcoming them into their camp. “Do you…not have your own camp?”

“Allies camp together,” the man said pleasantly, turning to the rest of her companions. “And we are now allies.”

“Are we?” Dorian asked, voice high. 

“Yes,” Roslyn said slowly, shrugging when Hawke gave her a searching look. “For now. You should know,” she added to the two Avvar, “I have four more warriors at camp. If you try anything—”

“You will disembowel us and throw our intestines into the swamp to feed the dead,” the man finished with a chuckle, patting his stomach. “I would expect no less.”

Cole offered to lead the Avvar back to camp, speaking rather animatedly with the large man about something to do with constructing bee hives. The mage gave Roslyn a last look before she followed, her smile a faint, amused thing. 

“When my council asks you how this happened,” Roslyn muttered, “you will tell them that I questioned our new Avvar allies thoroughly before agreeing to an alliance.”

Hawke shot her a sympathetic look before he caught up with Cole. 

“For some reason I thought that you knew what you were doing when you went off and traveled through the countryside,” Dorian said with a frown. “If I wanted to see someone get led around by a stick, I would have stayed in Skyhold and watched—”

“I will not hesitate to push you into the corpse water.”

He smiled indulgently at her as he passed. 

“You’re doing fine, _da’shyl_ ,” Isahn murmured. She eyed him carefully, but he didn’t seem to be poking fun. He seemed, strangely enough, sincere. “No one has died and it seems all the humans who wish you harm are just as inept. No one could hope for better.”

“I would push you over as well, if I could catch you.”

“The fact that you know you could not shows a great deal of self-awareness on your part.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little note on the companion quests, now that we're getting into the meat of Inquisition: I hope at this point no one expects me to stick to canon with everything, but I do feel strongly about this in particular. I understand the necessity of having choices for the player to make which affect the experience of a video game, but I really don't like how...blatant? It is in DA:I? Especially since a lot of the choices were focused on you deciding how a character _feels_ about something. Specifically with Dorian, I feel like his journey is one that can be aided by a befriended Inquisitor, obviously, but I always felt weird about so heavily affecting such a personal storyline, like...it wasn't really our place to be inserted in there. I felt the same with Cole and Bull, honestly. Dorian's journey is important, and I love him, so I want to do it right, but it might not come up a lot in Ascendant. Obviously, this fic is focused mainly on Roslyn (and Solas, especially in future books), so I won't be spending too much time on the personal journeys of other characters if they don't cross paths and they aren't necessary to the character-focused plot, but...yeah I wanted to make sure it was brought up. I have no idea if this makes sense, but I wanted to say something about it? I hope it doesn't come across as me just brushing those stories and characters under the rug, I guess. I've set out to write a very Roslyn-centric story, and so that's going to affect how much depth I can go into with everyone else. I mean, this shit is already enormous. (Also, I'm already planning on doing some add on fics with other POVs, if I can ever get there, so hopefully I'll be able to flesh out the other characters a bit better there...) Again. I don't know if this was necessary for me to write out but here we are. 
> 
> I hope you're enjoying things. I so appreciate the people who are commenting. You have no idea how happy it's making me to know that there are still people reading this monstrosity <3


	38. Soul Flashing and Dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Reincarnation" by Susanne Sundfør](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S4cpyFAHEmI&index=40&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&t=0s)

The woman, Rhaella, sat beside the fire, the light flickering over her metal collar, giving her the look of an ever shifting suit of armor. Her painted skin did not shine like golden dragon scales, nor did her black eye gleam like liquid amber, but Roslyn couldn’t help but compare her to the Alamarri mage. She had the same solid presence, the same air of ancient secrets. The same eternal aura.

Rhaella seemed to notice her attention, but said nothing, merely content to sit, and be watched. 

“You said the swamp was infested,” Roslyn said after a moment’s silence, feeling everyone else around them breathe a sigh of relief at the broken tension. 

The man, Amund, growled in displeasure. His moods were quick to change, she was starting to see, and he could flip from overjoyed to furious in a single breath. “Infested by a man borne of darkness.”

Her stomach bottomed out as she recalled the image of a figure cloaked in shadows, stepping from a black window in the air.

_Focus_.

“A man?”

“A sorcerer,” Rhaella answered, eyes sharp like flint over the fire. “I met him once years ago not far from where we now sit. He had ingratiated himself to a Chasind tribe. What became of him after our paths crossed, I know not, but whispers of foul magic reached my ears over the years. The Lady brought me tidings of gods corrupted in the lowland swamps. I, more than any other traveling augur, know this place better than my highland siblings. I came, and found again this foulcart.” Her high voice grew cold, and Roslyn had the impression of cold winds howling over the peaks of mountains. There was something undeniably familiar about this…augur. Something that pulled at Roslyn’s mind like a loose thread, and made her uneasy. “He has gathered my people’s weakest, those cast out of their tribes, those who have been lost by their own failings, and spun them a false tale of redemption and glory. No doubt he pits them against you, Herald, for it is known far and wide that you have survived the impossible. That the Lady of the Skies has smiled on you.”

Tension rose in Roslyn’s chest, but she fought the urge to fidget. “So these Avvar kidnapped and killed my scouts to bait me? Is that really all?”

“They captured a few of my party as well,” Amund said, grinding his teeth. “Stout dwarves and warriors all, but these pretenders have fell magic on their side. I’ve never seen the like, and I have read the signs of the gods my whole life.”

“You keep saying ‘gods’,” Dorian interjected. “You mean spirits, correct?”

“We say what we mean, lowlander.” Rhaella’s eyes never left Roslyn, but she directed her words at Dorian. “These spirits whom you belittle _are_ gods. They shelter and shepherd us. They power the worthy and punish those they find wanting. They breathe in the winds and rustle in the tall grasses of the southern plains. Is your Maker any different?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Roslyn saw Hawke open his mouth only to get elbowed by Varric. _Bless him_.

“You were traveling with dwarves?” she asked over the awkward silence. They could debatetheology later. _Or never_ , she thought with a frown. Never would be soon enough for her. “From Orzammar?”

Amund looked at his sister, who gave a small shake of her head. “That is not my tale to tell, Herald.” He considered her, eyes squinting under his hood. “But yes, I was traveling with dwarves, a few brothers and sisters in arms.”

Her brow lifted. At least they were honest about their secrecy. Dwarves, but not from Orzammar? Surface dwarves, presumably. Though what they were doing this far south with the Avvar, she could not imagine. “All right, what can you tell me about these exiles, then? How many are there, what kind of force should we expect?”

“Not more than fifty,” Rhaella said. “Though you’ll not be able to reach their fortress to challenge them. The dead guard it. And I caution against assaulting the sorcerer without destroying the source of his magic.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“The curse laid over the swamps originates from one place. It is likely an artifact. I have heard,” she grimaced, “whisperings in the Wilds. A cold hiss that shivers my blood. This magic has not been felt by my kind, for we have no name for it. All I know is that the gods fear it.”

The hairs on the back of Roslyn’s neck stood on end. “Whisperings?”

Rhaella nodded. 

“Do they come from spirits?”

“No, Herald. They come from nothing. From the dead.”

_Skulls_.

The Venatori had needed more skulls. More skulls to find shards. Shards to open doors beneath the earth.

“Do you know this sorcerer’s name?” she asked, voice low to hide her alarm.

The woman’s single black eye seemed to grow larger, to swirl with intent. “He calls himself Bard.”

Roslyn exhaled sharply, hands clenching as her mark spluttered in reaction. 

_Alexius wanted skulls more for Bard._ That’s what the note had said. 

“What is it?” Cassandra asked to her left. 

Roslyn kept her eyes forward and her voice calm even as her heart thudded. “The whispers, it comes from the skulls of dead Tranquil fashioned into something called oculara. The Venatori were using them to find shards in the Hinterlands, to unlock doors, the kind that Alexius had in Redcliffe. I’ve—seen this Bard’s name before.” 

A tremor seemed to run through the rest of their group. Perhaps they should have come with more soldiers after all. 

Rhaella watched her, assessing.

“You think the rising dead are connected?” Roslyn asked.

“I do. I cannot say if these oculara you speak of are the cause, but I know that Bard is behind this foulness. Kill him, and you might stop the darkness from spreading.”

If Bard truly was involved with the Venatori, killing him would stop nothing. Coryphea was behind this. Perhaps this is what she’d been setting into motion for the past six months. 

After all that waiting, they might finally have an answer.

Rainier cleared his throat. “Ah, there’s not a chance either of you have seen any signs of Grey Wardens round here, have you?”

Amund grunted. “Aye. Two weeks ago my party crossed paths with a dwarven warden and two other lowlanders. Haven’t seen her since.”

Rainier bit off a curse and paced, shaking his head. “That’d be Hessie and Stroud. Don’t know who the other one is, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Stroud was traveling with someone else. He was trying to convince more wardens to turn, but…” He met Roslyn’s gaze, fear etched in the lines of face. 

She took a steadying breath, turning back to the two Avvar. “What’s the chance anyone captured is still alive?”

“I can’t say, Herald,” Rhaella murmured, “but know that you will not get through to the fortress unscathed. There are hundreds of dead swarming the surrounding lands and waters. To march forward without an army would be the height of foolishness.”

It was silent for a moment as the reality sank in, the buzzing of the swamp insects and the distant cooing of hidden birds turned starkly sinister. If this was the Venatori, and Coryphea was pulling the strings of Bard, it would be suicide to walk into this fortress without back up. She couldn’t trust that they wanted her unharmed, like Alexius had in Redcliffe, neither did she know if any of her people were still alive. 

She was left with nothing to do but wait. 

“How fast could Rylen bring troops here?” she asked Cassandra, forcing herself not to let her anger show. 

“Four, five days,” Cassandra said, scowling. “Moving so many soldiers through the Wilds would draw attention to our position.”

“I won’t risk you lot in an assault or an attempt to enter this fortress. We don’t have the numbers.” She frowned, turning back to the Avvar. “You say the other Avvar, not Bard, want to prove themselves against me. Would they accept a challenge?”

Sera snorted. “You going to fight all of them by yourself?”

“If I have to.”

Varric groaned. “Not again.”

“I don’t know,” Hawke mused, “it sounds like a valid plan. Worked for me.”

“Against _one_ enemy.”

“One Arishok has to equal at least thirty exiled goatherders.”

Amund’s head snapped to Hawke. “Watch what you say about my people, lowlander. I do not suffer them to be insulted in my presence.”

“Would they _accept?”_ Roslyn asked before anyone else could inject their opinion into the proceedings. 

“They might,” Amund allowed, glaring at Hawke, “but you’d have to prove you were worthy of offering the challenge in the first place. A Braving holds no weight if one party has not been tested. Might as well prove your worth against a child.”

“Tested by what?” she asked incredulously. “I proved myself to you two, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Rhaella said. “But our word means nothing to the thane of another tribe, and Bard will spin lies to obscure the truth. They would have to see your prowess with their own eyes.”

“Wonderful,” she said, taking a deep breath to keep from screaming in frustration, “so they all have to watch me do something impressive before I ask them to fight me, or it doesn’t count?”

“Yes.”

Isahn chuckled, but otherwise gave no commentary.

Roslyn stared hard into the distance, the dark clouds roiling slowly over the marshes which stretched on endlessly, as if the edge of the world dropped down over a cliff of stinking mud. Shapes loomed out of the mist, flashing lights dipping and bobbing over the patches of grass and gnarled trees, little wisps winking to lure the brave and stupid out into the fog to die, alone and lost. 

_It looks like the Fade_ , she realized slowly, unease building in her stomach. _Or how the Fade used to look_. 

The wolf rose and rumbled comfortingly in her mind, letting a bit of acceptance filter through their connection. 

She had no choice. It was wait for reinforcements, treat this as the danger it was, or risk the lives of her companions. 

She wanted to go in alone. To carve a path through the corpses and face this Bard on her own terms. But that was too risky. 

She was the Inquisitor now. Not just a trumped up Herald. 

“Hall,” she said, more sharply than she’d intended, “how fast can you get back to the Grand Forest Villa?”

“Two days, your worship.”

She nodded. “Cole, Sera, Cassandra, I want you to go with him. Send word to the council that this is more than I thought it would be. We need men. A hundred of the fastest knights Rylen can muster. More, but only if you can be back within a week.” She met Isahn’s steady gaze. “I think we’re past keeping our presence hidden.”

Sera grumbled about being forced to travel with Cole, but Cassandra shook her head, the beginnings of steel forming in her eyes. “I’m not leaving you here alone.”

Roslyn’s jaw clenched. She’d expected as much. “I need you to escort Amund safely back to the Grand Forest Villa.”

Her eyes went wide. “What?”

Roslyn turned to Amund, who was now studying Cassandra with something of a smile on his mouth. “You said we were allies.”

“Aye, I did.” He grunted as he rose to his enormous height.

“Can you teach my man how to meet these Avvar in combat? The Inquisition has never fought in this kind of terrain before.”

Amund considered. Asking him to turn against his people was a risk, but she wanted to give her men as much of an advantage as she could. 

Finally, he beamed. “I can pass on my knowledge. It will be entertaining to see if any of your soldiers can stay on their feet long enough to draw blood.”

Cassandra’s displeasure radiated out from her like a beacon, but she held her tongue, eyes downcast. 

Roslyn pulled her aside as Amund began to jovially speak to Hall about traversing the swamp. “I need you to make sure he doesn’t try anything,” she murmured before Cassandra could argue. “I don’t trust anyone else to be able to handle him. He’s a fucking giant. He’d squish the rest of them in a second without you there to stop him.”

Cassandra frowned, eyeing the man with new scrutiny. “I understand the caution, but he seems friendly enough.”

“I can’t take any chances.”

Cassandra made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat. She crossed her arms, looking almost petulant and nothing like her nearly forty years. “I should be here with you.”

“Still worried I’ll slip off in the middle of the night?” Roslyn teased, grinning. 

“Of course—oh. You’re joking.” Cassandra scowled. “I am more worried that you will decide not to wait for reinforcements and simply charge in without me.”

Roslyn held her gaze, fighting the urge to shove her worry aside. She _wanted_ to charge in without her. If she was alone, she already would have. 

“You see,” Cassandra hissed, her low voice not enough to stop Dorian and Hawke from watching them, “you cannot even give me a promise that you’ll wait. What is the point of sending me away, if not to make it easier for you to risk your life on a suicide mission?”

“I won’t, Cassandra.”

“Swear that you will wait until I return.”

Roslyn grimaced, annoyance cutting through her fondness for the woman. “If you wanted to keep giving me orders, _you_ should have become Inquisitor. I offered you the chance and you refused. I’m asking you to do something that will protect my people, that I can’t trust anyone else to do.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “Can you do that?”

Silence expanded between them, hesitation flickering behind the Seeker’s eyes. For the most part, they’d agreed on the right course of action since Roslyn had stepped into her role. They hadn’t butted heads. They had worked together. 

But some part of her could not forget those first few months in the Hinterlands, when it was all she could do not to smash her fist into the Seeker’s face. 

It was different now, of course. She cared for Cassandra. She’d do anything and everything in her power to protect her. But this was unfamiliar territory, and she hated the guilt which flickered in her chest as she watched her friend adjust to taking, rather than receiving, orders. 

“You are the Inquisitor,” Cassandra muttered, discomfort in her voice—not from following orders, Roslyn thought, but from the awkwardness they found themselves in. “Which is exactly why you cannot risk yourself.” Her tone grew soft, eyes imploring. “I would never forgive myself if something were to happen to you after you sent me away. You are too important to lose, Roslyn.”

Roslyn held her gaze, tension threaded through every fiber of her being. She could describe how little her importance meant to the lives of the scouts taken simply to bait her. Instead, she murmured, “I’ve survived worse than a few walking corpses and a mad mage.”

Cassandra’s brow creased in frustration, but Roslyn stepped away from her friend. “You should go while you still have light,” she said, raising her voice to silence Cassandra from saying anything else. 

The Seeker’s eyes never left her face, and though she said nothing, Roslyn could feel her disapproval like a brand. 

“Amund,” Roslyn said sharply, causing the large warrior to stop in his tracks. “You should know that I value the lives of my companions greater than my own. If anything happens to them, either by your action or inaction, I’ll answer in kind.” She looked pointedly at Rhaella, before turning back to him. “Is that understood?”

The big man chuckled, thumped a fist against his chest. “Understood, Herald. May the Lady of the Skies hold me to this vow.”

They left quickly, gathering up only what supplies they needed. Roslyn watched them until they were out of sight. The camp went quiet without Sera’s laughter, or Cole’s murmured whispers to the frogs. Without Cassandra’s steady presence standing at its edge, a bulwark against the crawling swamp and its dark magic.

Some part of her agreed with Cassandra’s assertion that her life had value—it had held the Inquisition together when it was once crumbling. She had the anchor, and though she couldn’t hope to face Coryphea in open battle, she was still the closest thing to a deterrent they had. _A rival_ , she recalled, the word stirring certainty in her core. 

But she could not escape the truth that, once again, people had been killed to get to her. Coryphea, Helena, this sorcerer named Bard—they had not cared who stood in their path. The lives taken, the lives discarded, were her responsibility. 

And her debt was only getting larger.

 

~  ✧ ~

 

Three more days passed with no sign of the Venatori, no sign of the exiled Avvar. They crept through the swamp, trying to close rifts, to learn more about the fortress Bard had taken as his base of operations. Once belonging to a renegade Ferelden baron, Hargrave Keep was a sprawling complex settled into the hills to the southwest. Rhaella claimed it was falling apart, without the Ferelden throne to supply its upkeep. More of a ruin than a fortress.

Roslyn spent most of her time avoiding the augur, though questions burned at the tip of her tongue. She needed to focus on saving her men, on uncovering why the Venatori were working with this sorcerer. She trained with Isahn, she fought demons and undead, and she tried to be patient. 

Cassandra’s words wormed their way into her mind, providing a frustrating barrier against what she really wanted to do. The damn woman had been smart to force the issue before she left. Now, if Roslyn did anything before she returned, she would have to deal with her guilt at ignoring her friend. This sitting around was going to drive her insane. 

Hawke had drawn first watch, and after he’d allowed a bogfisher to rampage through camp the day before, he was taking his duty more seriously. Dorian was studying one of the corpses they’d managed to keep intact to see if he could make sense of the enchantment keeping them animated. His aura drifted to her over the fire, sweet and trumpeting with the echo of a violet symphony. Isahn was, strangely enough, talking to Rhaella in hushed, serious tones. Whatever they were discussing, Roslyn was trying not to pay attention. After hearing Isahn argue with the cool-tongued augur for nearly two hours about the classification of spirits as ‘gods’ that morning, something to which he took great offense, for some reason, she’d made sure to steer clear. 

Her belief in the Maker and His Prophet was shaky enough. She didn’t need to defend it to anyone else. 

Rainier had kept to himself, worry lines carved into his face like tracks through a gravel road. He was worried about his wife, and no one could think of anything to comfort him that would not ring hollow. 

“You okay?”

She looked up from her evening meal to meet Varric’s gentle gaze, noting that the camp was abnormally quiet. 

“It’s just,” Varric continued, grinning, “your good spirits seem to have taken a bit of a nose dive the past few days.”

“Have they?” she muttered, scraping out the bottom of her bowl without relish. “I hadn’t noticed.”

He shrugged, fiddling with one of Bianca’s gears. He’d taken to doing that more the past few days. It seemed to help with his nerves. “I notice things. It’s kind of my profession.”

“I thought your profession was writing smutty novels to entertain Cassandra.”

A loud twang of wire punctuated the silence as his fingers tensed. Varric muttered, “Don’t remind me.”

“What? I think it’s nice.” Roslyn tried to hide her smile. “Maybe you should write her something special. A Tethras original. Could go a long way to getting back into her good graces.”

“What makes you think I want to be _in_ anything where she is concerned?” A pause. “I probably could have phrased that better.”

“Probably,” she laughed, “but I’ll keep your secret. Never you worry.”

“Remind me never to express concern over your welfare again.”

She eyed him, noting the dark circles under his eyes, the rather pale cast to his normally tan skin. Even the rugged scruff on his beard was longer and shaggier than normal. “Maybe I should be the one asking you if you’re all right.”

He frowned at her. “Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m anxious,” she conceded, staring out over the strangely bright swamp. Only at sunset was the landscape painted with the actual light of the sun. It cut through the mist as it fell beneath the horizon, casting the trees and ramshackle buildings with a halo of gold and red. 

“What, you?” He chuckled. “And here I had you pegged for the calm, collected type.”

She swallowed her immediate retort, rotating her neck at a sudden itch to move. The shadows were growing at the edge of camp, the brief respite of light being swallowed again by the dark turquoise haze of the Fallow Mire. “I hate waiting,” she muttered. “Not knowing if they’re all right. They’re all just sitting in that rotting keep, thinking they’ve been abandoned.”

“No one who’s been with the Inquisition for any amount of time would ever think you abandoned them, Red.” He patted her knee, stilling her jostling leg. 

“We didn’t even know they were gone until three of their heads showed up at one of our outposts. We had no idea the Venatori were looking for shards until Solas and I stumbled into their camp. We know _nothing_ , Varric.” Her jaw clenched, and she looked down. “We’re still fumbling around in the dark without a light. I thought we’d… I thought we were getting somewhere, with Skyhold, and the Hinterlands, and Crestwood. But we’re not. We just sitting around on our asses waiting for the next knife to appear from the shadows, hoping we see it before it buries itself into our back.” 

Her throat constricted, anger and frustration and guilt building up to a crescendo behind her breast. The memory of such a knife flashed in her mind, pressed to her back, hovering at the base of her spine—the sharp, alien fear of for her life, knowing she would have been any the wiser if Hestia Aeducan hadn’t shown her mercy. She had always thought her death would come at her from the front. From a templar’s merciful sword, or a demon’s forthright malice. Even Coryphea had shown her face before she’d tried to kill her. 

She’d always hated shadows and darkness, peering around corners, keeping silent, out of sight. For some foolish reason, she’d thought becoming Inquisitor might change that. 

Her bowl fell with a soft thud as her hands shook. “How the _fuck_ am I supposed to protect anyone when I don’t even know where to look for the next strike?”

She felt Varric’s eyes on her cheek, and realized that the camp was quieter than it should have been. 

Not meeting anyone’s gaze, she rose and made for the edge of camp. “I’m going for a walk around the perimeter. Be back in a few hours.”

No one followed her. 

Picking her way along a grass-choked trail, she let her aura expand to search for any sign of a rift. She’d closed as many as she could in the surrounding area and the others she sensed within a day’s journey were too close to the keep, too close to the army of the dead guarding its gates. She made the circuit around their camp twice, but saw nothing more than a few bogfishers slipping into the deeper water past rotted docks and hills of moss. Figures drifted through the fog at the very edge of her sight—corpses. Too far away to bother with her, but close enough to remind her what lurked out where she could no longer see. 

She unbuckled her belt and toed off her shoes, discarding them as she jumped up onto a hill ringed with tall, crumbling stones. She’d seen more places like these throughout the swamp, though she hadn’t had the courage to ask Rhaella what they were. Avvar monuments, probably. Some had carvings, some empty holders where candles or torches might sit. 

They reminded her of the standing stones in Lady Shayna’s Valley, the carvings made of the same rough, sure strokes. She tossed her things at the base of one pillar and rolled out her shoulders, fighting the urge to throw herself into the air on a burst of magic. She couldn’t expend the normal amount of energy in her practice, as anything so obvious tended to draw attention from the corpse-filled water. It had been a test, the past few days, to keep her magic controlled and small, subtle enough to evade notice. Isahn had commended her, told her she was quickly improving. It was nice of him. Too nice, some small part of her worried. Isahn’s kindness was still a strange thing, something she wasn’t sure she could trust quite yet, though she enjoyed it. 

With an inhale, she raised her barrier, running her mind along its length and ensuring there were no gaps in its protection. When she was sure it was sound, she dropped it, exhaled, and snapped it back into place. 

She repeated the exercise for nearly half an hour, making sure that her barrier was as solid as she could make it. She hadn’t been able to shield anyone else yet, but she was progressing. Slowly. 

Her palm tingled with the ambient energy swirling around her. It seemed to be constantly absorbing magic here, where the Veil was more ragged than any other place she’d been. This place must have been a site of magical upheaval long before the Breach. In some areas, the tears were too small to allow rifts to form, but they were there, the size of a finger, the width of a dagger. She’d tried sealing them, but they were too small, too subtle for her to do much with. It made her feel uneasy, as if something were watching her through the cracks in the world.

The mark flickered, and she let veilfire rise over her skin. It popped and smoked up over her fingers as she held up her hand, illuminating the glyphs on the rough stones. If they were pictographs, she couldn’t understand them. They didn’t look like any she’d been forced to memorize in the Circle. One looked something like a glyph of warding, but she wasn’t willing to try it, just in case it did something unexpected and drew attention from the dark water. Jagged, intricate, they looked as if they’d been clawed out by someone’s nails when the stone was still soft. 

She exhaled and dropped the veilfire. “This is stupid,” she muttered, eyes drifting back to the hazy line of orange and purple to the far northwest. The wolf heightened her sight as she squinted, but all she saw was the faint outline of hills. The Frostbacks were out there somewhere, cold and clear and beautiful. She longed for the height, to see farther than a stone’s throw, to stand on a tall, sharp peak and map the world beneath her. 

Eyeing the top of the standing stone, she jumped, throwing just a bit of force into her feet. She caught the edge and pulled herself up easily, perching like a fat eagle. The stone didn’t wobble—whatever giant had speared it into the ground had done his job well. Ten feet off the ground now, on a raised hill, she had as clear a view of the swamp as she was going to get. The light touched the tops of the gnarled, bent trees—oaks and willows, swaying slightly where birds hopped from limb to limb. Mirky water stretched far to the south, where the haze rose to obscure the unexplored reaches beyond the last keep any Ferelden lord had ever claimed. 

Before she knew what she was doing, her hand had found the amulet tucked into her shirt. Her fingers slipped over the smooth edges, edges she’d long-since memorized since her last nightmare of the Tevinter priestess. If she had been afraid of its presence in the immediate aftermath, leaving it alone felt even worse. As if, out of her sight, it might grow talons. The white opal glimmered in the dusk light, its single, dark thread in the center looking like nothing more than a shadow. 

She had debated bringing up the subject with Dorian, but something had stopped her. The augur Rhaella was just a woman, likely unconnected to her amulet and visions. There was no reason to think anything of the strange feeling in her gut when she looked at the woman’s single black eye. When she heard her speak of this Lady of the Skies. 

Voicing her fears and suspicions in Skyhold was one thing. She was safe there, in the company of people who had pledged themselves to a common goal, in a fortress humming with magic and solidity. In the closest thing to a home she’d ever had. 

Out here in the Korcari Wilds, it felt…deeper, more potent. As if voicing any of what was happening to her would draw unwanted attention. 

_Eyes_ , some voice in the back of her mind murmured. _Hundreds of eyes._

Roslyn blinked, startled. She didn’t know where the thought had come from, nor why it stirred a flicker of fear in her chest. Picking at it only seemed to make it fade, hide behind an impenetrable wall. The same wall where her lost memory of the Conclave had vanished. 

For a moment, she sat, frozen, hand clenched around the amulet and staring unfocused into the hazy south. Her heart beating fast, bringing with it a spark, a curling heat in her chest. A sense of running… _running_ … 

The wolf broke into her thoughts with a questioning thread. 

She shook her head, as if trying to dislodge water from her ears. “I fucking hate this place,” she muttered, tucking her amulet back into her shirt. It was too easy to get lost in the mist here, where the trees looked like shapes from the Fade of her childhood, where corpses walked along the edges of her mind, and augurs spoke of portents beside the fire.

She stood slowly, rising to her full height on top of the stone, finding her balance easily without the wolf’s help. Her eyes closed as the last of the sunlight brushed over the Korcari Wilds. She drank in as much as she could, and when she opened her eyes again, the mire was dark, like a purple bruise coating the earth. 

Distracted, she leapt back onto the ground. 

Only to yelp as she caught sight of someone waiting for her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry about the end guys, but I had to cut this somewhere or it was going to be 10k words long. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone commenting. You're lovely <3


	39. Exposing Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Electricity" by Sam Pinkerton](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EYOX3qF9tIQ&index=41&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&t=0s)

Roslyn scrambled upright, heart leaping into her throat, aura swelling for a fight—only to relax at once.

Solas leaned against a standing stone on the opposite side of the hill, arms crossed, head tilted, a smile playing at the edge of his mouth. There was no aura curling around him, no Fade to soften or heighten his features. He was simply—here. In the physical world.

“ _Fuck_ you,” she said with a breathless laugh. “This,” she gestured to him erratically, taking a moment to catch her bearings, “is starting to grow stale.”

His mouth twitched. “I disagree. I find this entirely enjoyable.”

“You would.” She tried to kill her smile, cheeks flushing. His eyes winked at her from the gloom, bright, cheeky. “Should I even ask how you found me?”

He cocked one eyebrow. “You told me you were traveling to the Fallow Mire. I thought you were extending an invitation. I’ve been chastised in the past for neglecting to answer a summons from the mighty Inquisitor. Her terrible ire and wrath has a reputation I could not hope to withstand.”

“Don’t be an ass.”

“You call me that so often I wonder if the very meaning of the word has been—”

“Solas,” she warned, half-annoyed by the growing light in his eyes, the playfulness in his voice, and half…decidedly not. 

His gaze dropped as he straightened, running down and up the length of her in a slow, intent rake. He was wearing his pack in addition to the one she’d given him in the Hinterlands, staff strapped to his back, in the same threadbare tunic and linen pants he’d always worn when traveling. But his sleeves were rolled up to display his forearms and there was a distinct lack of dirt on his clothes. He looked nearly the same as he had when he’d left, but his entire bearing was different, somehow. More relaxed. Closer to the man he was in the Fade.

“I followed the trail of closed rifts,” he said casually, as if such a thing were not only possible, but easy, “and I made some inquiries along the way. There isn’t much here to draw interest beyond scattered villages and walking corpses, but still, I am impressed. If not for prior knowledge and familiarity with your rather distinctive aura,” his mouth twitched into a sideways smile, “I think the task might have been much more arduous.”

Her attention held on the motion of his lips. “Impressed?”

His hands circled behind his back as he took a step toward her. “It was not so long ago that I would have been able to feel you for miles. You moved across the landscape like a lightning storm, leaving traces of yourself wherever you walked. Now…” He cocked his head, approval glittering in his eyes. “You’ve gained a remarkable amount of control in a short amount of time. It is impressive.”

Nerves danced down her spine, but she kept her expression cool. “Only you could be impressed by someone’s lack of impact on the world.”

She hadn’t meant for it to come out so harsh, or ring so true, but his expression grew strained. “Subtlety has a power of its own,” he said, soft. “The ability to walk through the world without changing it is an ability few can claim.” 

They stood in silence for a moment. 

Something in his posture shifted, becoming more tense. Hints of his mask shone in his tightening expression. “Was I mistaken in tracking you down?”

She took in the hesitation in his eyes, the slight flattening of his mouth, and the reality of his presence finally hit home. Seeing him in the Fade had been one thing. Feeling his aura, knowing he wasn’t leaving, had tamed the restless fear which had built in his absence. But his presence—real, fixed, not a question of space distorted by the magic of the swiftly-changing Fade…

It was all she could do not to reach out and touch him, to make sure her mind wasn’t playing tricks on her. 

“No,” she finally murmured, watching his face relax, his eyes brighten, fighting the small flutter in her stomach at the sight. “You weren’t mistaken. I was just…surprised. I don’t like being surprised.”

“Shall I employ a crier to proceed my entrance in the future? Or would you prefer a raven alerting you of my whereabouts?”

“You could try not to lurk in the shadows while I’m otherwise occupied. This isn’t the first time I’ve caught you ogling me.”

“I thought you liked it when I looked at you like this,” he said softly, his voice coming out slow and rasping. “In fact, I seem to recall you telling me not to stop.”

Her mind went blank as she stared. Her lips parted. She exhaled, searching for a response. 

History had told her not to place too much importance on his words, on the way he watched her, the way his voice broke ever so slightly when he chose to say her name. Nothing would come of it. And even if something did unfurl in the space between them, as it tended to do despite both their best efforts, it would be snatched away just as quickly, borne aloft on the winds of whatever kept him from taking that last, final step toward her. It was a hollow dance they’d found themselves in, frustrating and painful and transient. 

The worst part was, she understood. Maker damn her, but she felt the same, in those moments when she allowed herself to wonder what it would be like, to let this man who had already rejected her back into her heart. Nothing good could come of this breaking and dancing and leaving and teasing. She felt, somehow, that there was no future. No reassurance. He’d said as much more than once.

But that didn’t stop her fool heart from _wanting_ it. 

Her thoughts expanded and contracted in the space of a breath, but before Roslyn could decide how to react, he was stepping forward, his hand was cupping the back of her head, and his lips were on hers. 

And just like that, nothing else mattered. 

His kiss was light—a gentle, unhurried caress. A brush and a press like a question. So quick she thought she’d imagined it before it was gone again. She waited, ready for the fall, the practiced pain. But he was still there, his eyes roving over her face, judging her reaction, just an inch or two away. She could see the dip in his throat as he swallowed, the color spreading across his gold-freckled cheeks in the faint mireling light. 

The tips of his fingers toyed with the wisps of her hair where it had fallen from its knot—softly, hesitantly, as if he couldn’t take his hand away, and yet he was afraid to pull her closer. Electricity ran down her spine from that not-quite-a-touch, that ghosting over her skin. That wonderful, heartbreaking hesitation.

His warm breath rushed over her face, his eyes tight on her reaction. She felt it, every gradual sensation of it, when his aura reached out for hers. 

Slow, achingly soft, just like his kiss. Its edges flickered over hers, tentative like moths dancing around a light. There was so much care in the unraveling, in the testing—not playful now, but afraid. 

His lips closed. His brow furrowed. The faintest regret flashed in his eyes. “If I am too late—”

Her hands fisted into his vest, pulling him down to meet her again as she released her aura. The sound he moaned into her mouth almost made up for the teasing, the cautious edging over months and months, the damn stupid smirk on his damn stupid lips. It was so much better than her memory. If his voice held all the lilting grace of a fiddling stream when he spoke, his moan was like a fucking symphony. 

Peppermint slid over her tongue as she drank him in, slowly, purposefully—not the manic scrabbling of their first kiss or the tentative searching of their second. She savored him, the feeling of his hand gripping the small of her back, the burning bend of her spine as he pulled her waist flush against his. His fingers wove into her hair and held. The whisper of his aura filled her to the brim and spilled over in the sensations racing over her skin. Open. Inviting. Eager.

And beneath that, the deep well of his longing for her, so clear she might have seen down to the very bottom, if there was even a bottom. She’d brushed it long ago in that snow-covered village in the Fade, felt it ravage her and leave her shaking. Now, she dove in, and she felt him welcome her. 

It was an answer. _His_ answer. In every folding and forming of his lips, in every shift of his tongue against hers, and she wanted to lose herself in it.

When she broke away for breath, he followed her, nudging her cheek with his nose, the feeling of his smile etched into the shape of hers. 

“Much too late,” she breathed, relishing the feeling of his hands still holding her, his lips still close to hers, his body not leaving, not moving away, but _staying_. It was so potent, his presence, that it would have scared her if she’d had a mind to be afraid. 

He chuckled and the noise raced into her core, tripping as it went. 

“You weren’t actually worried, were you?” she asked, unable to stop the grin splitting her face. 

“I did not pass through a corpse-infested bog for the scenery,” he murmured, fingers tightening at the small of her back, digging into her leathers with relish. “I loathe gnats.”

She laughed, but he cut off the sound at once with another, harder kiss. A punctuation. A sealing. His aura still lapped against her, like waves washing in and out, leaving a bit more of himself every time. A slow, steady unmaking as his tongue parted her lips and moved against hers. She might have forgotten herself entirely and shoved him back against the stone, traced the graceful curve of his neck with her tongue—if the ground hadn’t shifted suddenly under her feet.

Alarm curdled the warmth in her core. She clutched at him as he tensed, but the tremor only lasted for a second. The swamp was silent, until it swelled again with noise as the wildlife returned to its interrupted routine. 

They breathed the same air for a moment, collecting their bearings. “A corpse-infected bog that shakes from time to time,” she said, grinning slightly at his frown. “It’s a lovely place, really.”

“Does—this happen often?”

“First time since we got here. You’re lucky you didn’t miss it.”

“Lucky indeed,” he agreed, pupils blown wide, shoulders expanding as his breathing settled. 

His pulse raced under her hands, his aura surrounding, sparking against hers. 

Slowly, she remembered where she was, and that staying out in the open in the middle of a place called the Fallow Mire might draw unwanted attention. Also, the more time she spent away from camp, the more likely it would be that someone would come looking for her. Interruption by her companions might be just as unpleasant as an interruption by an animated corpse.

She released her hands from his vest, smoothed it out slowly as she pressed him back. It was with a certain amount of satisfaction that she noticed he resisted slightly. “We should get back to camp. Unless you plan on surprising everyone else this way?”

“As I’m not sure who you’re traveling with, perhaps I shall wait on offering anymore intimate reunions.”

“Don’t I feel special.”

His eyes softened as he stared at her. She felt something move over her bare feet—the edge of his toes brushing ever so softly against hers. 

“I’m glad you came back,” she murmured, running her hand along the leather cord of his necklace, unable to pull her hands away, to remember why she should stop touching him. It was so novel, so rare, that she loathed to stop in fear that the chance might slip away again.

He reached for her hands, taking them in his and kissing her fingers slowly. His eyes never left hers. “As am I.”

The last bit of her restless hope faded as she held his gaze. She cleared her throat against its sudden tightness, trying to remind herself that she had no right to feel so excited when there were still people to save and a sorcerer to fight. Bit by bit, she peeled away from him, the imprint of his aura never truly fading as the space between them grew. He dropped her hands reluctantly as she bent for her coat. 

She made it all of two steps before another tremor shook the earth, this one much stronger than the last. A great crack broke through the air. Stumbling, she reached out for the nearest stone to keep her balance. Her aura was still hovering around her, excited and buzzing—

So that when her palm touched the surface of the stone something flared to life in the back of her mind. Power—a clarion call that resonated within her bones. Hazy green light emanated from the stone, piercing through the mist of the mire.

On instinct, she shoved back, force lancing out from her marked palm to slam into the standing stone. As the rock cracked and shuddered, tipping away from her to thud onto the downward slope of the hill, the anchor activated. 

The wolf rose, seeking out the source of the foreign energy, and howled. 

The hair on the back of her neck stood on end as Fade energy rippled down over her head, the taste of ozone flooding her mind. Her senses went into overdrive as light flickered through the whole spectrum of colors before landing on a fierce, startling white. She saw every follicle of hair on her arms, every trace of dirt on her hands. The bark of the trees before her was cracked, peeling, its skin molting in the moisture of the swamp. Ripples glanced across the water, not black, but clouded grey, brown, green, red—swirling together to form a twisting mass of currents, a dark reflection of her night sky in the Fade. 

At Solas’s word of alarm—a tune of such haunting, piercing melody, familiar and yet resonating with layer upon layer of sound she’d never heard, never been able to hear—she turned. Her movements sent a wealth of sensation over her skin. It was like she’d never felt her body before, all the intricate connections and brushes of hair and fabric, the sweat pooling under her arms and breasts, the steady burn of muscle in her thighs and stomach. The slow, twitching movement of her toes.

Her heart beat tripled, and she heard each distinctive skip-thud of blood pumping through her veins. She smelled the swamp, sweet and damp, the sharp tang of rust, the cloying stench of rotting soil, smoky peat trailing through the air.

The moldy sinews of decomposed flesh. The yawning moan of lungless lips. 

Her eyes focused over Solas’s shoulder, at the stream of corpses erupting from the dark, acrid water. Ribbons of dirt and slime radiated outward as the first head broke the surface. The moaning sent shivers of revulsion over her skin, the sound burrowing into her mind like rats into a hole.

With only a thought, the first second of an inkling, she brushed Solas aside. Threads of her magic wrapped carefully around him. Weighing nothing more than a breeze, she set him against the only stone still standing, layered a barrier over him, and released the magic coursing through her veins. The Fade crackled down her spine and filled her every thought with pure, focused power. 

Like pricks of light against the black firmament, she saw the animated corpses as purple flames. They screamed of death and corruption, of magic perverted. The wolf sensed the direction of her thoughts, and expanded. 

A wave of magic spread out from her palm, green and white and silver, crackling and roaring like an ethereal burst of fire. It hit the corpses and disintegrated them, turning them into wisps of ash and dust, blown back across the black water and lost to the breeze. She saw every mote of them drift away, each broken piece of what was once bone or dirt, collecting with the smallest parts of the matter of the world.

As each prick of flame died, she felt the wisps, the pieces of magic which might one day become spirits, as they broke apart and ceased to exist. Her heart wrenched at the loss, at every wasted thread of consciousness that had been forced to reside inside these shambling prisons of sinew and bone. 

The wolf, clearer now than she had ever seen it before, looked up, and she followed its gaze. The Fade was open above her, as if she stood in the center of a rift. Her soul sang with the ferocious pull, and part of her wanted to fly upward. 

She reacted without thought, after a year of memorizing the motions, of ingraining the urge to heal, to seal into the core of her being. The anchor connected, the line of bright green energy sparking now with silver instead of gold. The confines of her body reasserted themselves, separating from the rift, from the Fade, just as she had taught herself to do—though some part of her shied away. 

She didn’t want this small, solid cage. She wanted to drift upward. She wanted to _fly_ —

The rift shuddered shut as her hand clenched. The Fade vanished. The world crashed down on her—solid, unchanging. 

Suffocating. 

Her chest burned with a fierce, unquenchable fire, and she clutched at her throat. She couldn’t _breathe_. The moment of lovely clarity in which she’d reveled in the beating of her own heart was gone. It was all she could do not to drop to her knees, the pull of the ground was so great. The light was too dark, too oppressive, even with the wolf lending her its aid. How had she ever thought its senses were sharp? How had she lived like this? 

Hands caught her wrists as she clawed at her skin. She grimaced as a face came into blurry focus. Noises wrapped around her, warped and muted as if she were underwater. As if she were drowning. The feeling was similar to being silenced by a templar, except…she had done it to herself.

Green light broke through her fog. She heard Solas’s voice.

“Roslyn, can you hear me?”

The wolf flooded her mind, lending her a small, pitiful echo of the wealth of sensation she’d had only a moment before. Her breathing slowed, the tongue in her mouth leaden as she nodded. Moisture fell down her cheeks. She was crying. She felt drunk and sick. Her head pounded. Nausea curled in her stomach as she tried to make sense of the horrible finality to the world around her. “I’m all right. I just…need a moment.”

“You opened a rift.”

Looking up into his eyes, blueish grey, familiar, she saw his startled excitement. 

“I felt…” He was breathing hard, flushed, as if they’d just finished kissing again. “You stood at the center of a rift of your own making, one foot in the Fade and one without. I caught only a glimpse of the power, but for one moment…”

She flattened her hands against his chest, let her forehead drop to his shoulder as she tried to remember how she had existed only a few moments before. Her knees shook. Her temples pounded. Vertigo swayed in her stomach.

His hand wrapped around her waist, one sliding up to cup the back of her head. “The Fade is magic made manifest. It is the potential of everything. As a being of power, you connect with it more strongly, more fully. Even in such a small space of time, your physical form ceased to exist. The anchor allowed you to pass through, beyond your flesh. It—must have been a transcendent experience.”

His voice had changed, grown wistful, as he continued. There was something raw in it now, something she understood in her heart even if she couldn’t put a name to it. 

“It was—certainly something.” She couldn’t process the change. The only other time she’d felt like this was in the dark future at Redcliffe, or when she’d closed the Breach. 

Tension crawled down her spine. Now that she was back in her own body, now that she knew what was waiting for her on the other side…

“Sorry for…moving you,” she said, breathing deep, letting the mundane scent of him fill her nostrils. Sweat and dirt and elfroot—bright, comforting.

He chuckled. The sound echoed through his chest, and she felt it rumble under her splayed hand. “Don’t apologize. You were remarkably gentle.”

_Pull it together._ Dimly she registered that he was holding her, that this was not normal for them, but she couldn’t spare the energy on what it meant. Clouds of thunder passed through her mind, and it was all she could do to string words together to form a coherent thought.

Fear followed soon after, even after so many months spent traveling the Fade at night, of learning it was more than the nightmare she’d been made to believe, some small part of her rejected his excitement. 

Because it _was_ excitement she heard in his voice.

“Right, now we really need to get back to camp,” she muttered, moving slowly, wincing at the burden of her limbs. She glanced up and saw a piercing question in his eyes. “Did you know that was possible?”

His excitement dropped, smoothed into something closer to what she might expect from someone who’d just watched the Fade erupt to life before him. Although, if anyone would get excited about such a thing, it’d be him. “Theoretically? Of course. The Elder One intended to use the anchor to enter the Fade. The more accustomed you become to using it, the more you might unlock other applications of its power.” He watched her with a knowing hesitation, smoothing his hands down her arm. “Does that…trouble you?”

The gesture was so sweet, so simple. It dispelled the last of her tension. She shook her head. “It was overwhelming. The amount of power—” Some piece of her mind snapped into place. “I know what’s animating the corpses. They’re not spirits, but they aren’t wisps either. They’re something in between. But they’ve been twisted, trapped.” She shivered as she recalled the feeling, as her own body felt restrictive, small. 

_Too small_. 

“You appeared to have banished them,” Solas said, voice dropping as a hard look came into his eyes. 

“They had already been banished. It was like—they didn’t have a purpose yet, they were just existing, but wrong.” Disgust roiled in her belly as she recalled the obelisks from her vision of the Tevinter priest. Pulled and perverted. Not like Wisdom, but similar. “Bard is pulling raw spiritual essence through the Fade and shoving them into the dead. I didn’t even think that was possible.”

Solas tensed and looked over her shoulder, pulling her out of her thoughts. She followed his guarded gaze, and saw Isahn watching them from the other side of the fallen pillar. 

He moved casually, sheathing his sword as he whistled in what sounded like mock surprise. “Here I thought you’d gotten yourself into trouble,” he called, grinning. The humor didn’t reach his eyes. “But it seems that trouble found you.”

She stepped away from Solas, disliking Isahn’s pointed look. It took her a second to make sure she was steady, her vision blurring as her chest burned, like she had a stitch in her side from running. Solas caught her elbow as she swayed. 

“What’s wrong with you?” 

Roslyn shot Isahn a hard look as she gently peeled Solas’s hand from her arm and bent awkwardly to grab her coat. “Is everyone in camp all right?”

“There certainly were no explosions or falling pillars.” He propped a foot on the cracked stone, eyes narrowed as he took in her distress. “I felt a rift open and thought you might need help. Apparently I was too late.”

She watched Solas out of the corner of her eye as she slid on her boots. He was tense, but there was a coiled disdain to his posture now. It reminded her of the way he acted whenever he was forced to interact with Vivienne. 

“ _Falon_ ,” Isahn said pleasantly. “I didn’t expect you to join us so soon.”

“I came to aid the Inquisitor,” he answered, his tone calm, unaffected. “Clearly we were both proven obsolete.”

Isahn’s brow arched. “We were worried. Some of us thought you weren’t coming back.”

“I’m sorry you were given that impression.” He looked to her, eyes searching. “Deeply.”

Her mouth twitched, but she refused to get into the middle of whatever they needed to work out between themselves. The sounds of her other companions drifted toward them over the swamp, and she pushed the last of her discomfort aside. “I felt something charge the anchor when I touched the stone,” she said to Solas. 

He frowned, but before he could speak, Isahn interrupted. “This stone?” He bent over the surface, running a hand along the cracked glyph. “Seems to be a beacon of some kind. A repository for ambient energy.” His brow lifted. “The humans figured out a way to collect and hold it. How marvel.”

She clenched her marked hand as it continued to tingle with power. 

Solas took her hand as she held it out, examining the glyph. She stared, alarmed to see that there was another layer of energy moving over it. The nine-pointed star was sharp and clear, but there was a haze of dots, a new constellation stretched over her palm. “It has expanded.”

“Is it going to keep expanding?” She sent a questioning thread to the wolf, who was sitting slightly apart from her. It seemed dazed, and just as confused as she was. _You all right?_

It shook out its fur, huffing warmth over her chest, and reassured her. It appeared to be fine, none the worse for stepping momentarily into the Fade. If anything, it was resonating a little differently now, as if its energy had shifted one degree to the left. Their connection was strong, but the line between them was solidifying. 

She blinked, realizing she’d missed whatever Solas had said. “Sorry?”

His expression was searching, as if he knew that she was communicating with the wolf, but didn’t want to speak of it out loud. “I sense no violence in the anchor. There is no danger of it hurting you.”

Her mouth twitched as he continued to stare. “Later,” she murmured, earning an arched brow as she stepped away. 

Her mind raced through the ramifications of what she had just done. Opening a rift was something she’d never even considered, not in her wildest dreams. Her anchor allowed her to seal the Veil, to strengthen it. Why would she make more work for herself by sundering it further?

The image of those corpses blowing away like sand in a quick wind held fast in her mind. The amount of power she’d channeled in such a short amount of time…

An idea formed before her, stupid, possibly reckless. But if she could replicate what she’d just done…

Perhaps Bard’s army of the dead was not such a danger to her people after all. 

Someone splashed through the water behind Isahn, making enough noise to drown out the slowly creaking bugs. “What part of ‘wait for me’ did you not—” 

Hawke came to a stop in a foot of black water, staring up at her and Solas with a deep frown. He looked between them sharply, finally fixing on Solas with a pained expression. “Please tell me you haven’t been here the whole time. I thought I stopped drinking when we left Skyhold.”

Roslyn snorted. “Get back to camp, Hawke.” She ignored Isahn’s continued stare. If he wanted to be concerned for her, fine, but she wasn’t about to acknowledge him for it. Whatever his issue with Solas, it belonged to them, and she wanted nothing to do with it. “Help me down?” she asked Solas. 

He hesitated, but he moved toward her, hand sliding over her hip as he studied the side of her face carefully. “Are you still feeling disorientated?”

“No,” she murmured, grinning. 

His grip tightened as they made their way back to camp. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope the reunion made up for the horrible ending I gave you guys last time <3 
> 
> You are all wonderful, lovely people, and I cherish each and every one of you reading <3


	40. The Gallow Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Belfast Child" by Sydney Wayser](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vMD3q4fSavw&t=0s&index=42&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S)

The rain lashed against Roslyn’s face as she stared at Keep Hargrave. 

Lights flickered along the battlements across the field of dead, torches guttering in the darkness as Avvar warriors ran to and fro. They were worried. _Good_. She fought the urge to pace as she waited. They should be worried. She had half a mind to tear the walls down, to throw them all to their own dead. To punish, rather than offer them peace. 

But the Inquisition had arrived in time. She had promised to try this challenge. If it saved some of her people, she _would_ try it. Even if diplomacy still felt like a foreign language she’d not yet learned to speak. 

Somehow, Rylen had managed to muster one hundred and fifty soldiers and drive them south from the Hinterlands in less than a week. He stood behind her left shoulder, on Cassandra’s other side, waiting, just as they were all waiting. 

Some more patiently than others. 

Hawke sighed, for the tenth time since forming a line on the other side of the field in front of the keep. Since sending their message and hoping for an acceptance of their terms.

“Do you need to excuse yourself to piss, Hawke?” she called over the rain, keeping her eyes on the main road. It was difficult, through the rain and the mist and the swarms of shambling corpses, to pick out the twin flames on either side of the front gate. 

“No, I pissed before we left camp, just like Varric told me to.” He leaned heavily on his staff. How he didn’t cut himself across the cheek with that wicked blade, she didn’t know. _Probably blood magic_ , she thought with a grim smile. “I’m just curious how long you intend to wait for someone to greet us,” he continued. “These Avvar don’t seem very polite. I could knock on the door for you?”

“If anyone is going to be knocking, it will be me.”

“Why do you get to have all the fun?”

“Because I am the Inquisitor and you’re not.”

“Is it too late for the Inquisition to change their mind? Where’s that Seeker…”

“Be quiet,” Cassandra said sharply.

A deep, booming laugh echoed over the heads of the soldiers. “See how she chastises the slippery mage in a single breath? She is _magnificent_.” A chorus of assent rumbled in answer to Amund. 

Roslyn could almost hear Cassandra shifting in discomfort. Apparently, the Sky-Watcher had been rather impressed by her on their short journey north together. So much so that he could not seem to stop expanding upon the Seeker’s numerous virtues to anyone who remained in his presence longer than a few minutes. She would have told the man to piss off, if she hadn’t caught the rather flustered blush on Cassandra’s face every time she overheard him. If there was any woman who needed no aid in discouraging potential suitors, it was the Right Hand of the Divine. And, though Roslyn would never voice it out loud, if there was ever anyone who needed to let loose with a eager and enthusiastic giant of a man, it was Cassandra Pentaghast.

They were alike in that way.

“How long has it been?” she asked Rylen. 

“Nearly an hour, your worship.” He paced in the mud, throwing his gaze over his assembled soldiers, even though he’d checked, and double-checked their formation already. He was nervous, but not for their chances. No, she guessed that his thoughts were focused on a certain dwarf currently being held hostage in the fortress before them. “Don’t think anyone’s coming out to meet us.”

“Rhaella,” she called, “any point in waiting?”

“No, Herald,” the augur answered from down the line where she stood with the few mages Rylen had gathered to march with the rest of his soldiers. They had been seeing to the Inquisition’s torches so they would stay lit even in this constant rain, strengthening what wards they could on armor, weapons. “Whatever you are going to do, the time has come. The Lady shows her favor by sending the rain. Your field of battle will be slick—a challenge no true Avvar would refuse.”

Roslyn grimaced as a spike of lightning arced through the clouds, followed quickly by a sharp peel of thunder. _Unsettling._ It seemed the Avvar gods had not turned their back on the faithful like the Maker. 

“Right,” she exhaled, turning to face the people gathered close around her. “Time’s wasting.”

Cassandra, Rylen, Solas, and Isahn stood nearest, with Hawke, Varric, and Dorian on one side and Rainier on the other. Cole was moving through the soldiers, relieving their fears, and Sera was…somewhere. Probably strung up in a tree ready to pick off corpses.

“You have your orders.” She ignored Cassandra’s disapproving glare. They’d had a heated discussion last night when she arrived with the rest of Rylen’s men. She’d thought Roslyn’s idea was mad, but she’d relented. After considerable coercion and not a small amount of threatening. “I’ll clear the field, challenge the thane, and kill them, whoever they are. Hopefully that will bring Bard out of hiding. Something goes wrong, you charge, and pray you can get to our people in time.”

More than a few echoed Cassandra’s look of fearful incredulity—Dorian was practically pouting—but Isahn and Solas seemed to approve of the plan. Hawke as well, though she wondered if he simply wanted to fight something and didn’t much care what happened either way. She probably could have pointed him toward a nest of wyverns with a sharp pat on his ass and he’d be happy to charge. 

“I don’t mean to question your considerable talents, Red,” Varric muttered, sounding as if he were about to do just that, “but there’s gotta be three hundred skeletons out there.”

“Looks like closer to five hundred,” Isahn mused, looking over her shoulder casually, jeweled beads in his hair catching the light of their torches and winking like black stars amidst the rain. “Bard must have been building up his forces in the past few days. Smart.”

“How is that helping?” Varric asked sourly.

Isahn grinned down at him. “Would you rather the Inquisitor be ignorant of the odds, Tethras?”

“The Inquisitor is fine,” she said before anyone else could express their doubts about her abilities. 

It wasn’t a lie. She felt anxious, true, but only because she worried what provoking Bard would mean for the prisoners. Rhaella and Amund seemed to think the Avvar would not dream of killing prisoners after a challenge was issued, but she didn’t want to trust that these exiles would follow their people’s rather skewed code of morality. 

“And you won’t let anyone else come with you?” Cassandra asked, her voice low. 

“Of course not,” Dorian muttered. “That would spoil her fun.”

“What the Inquisitor plans to do will require her to be alone,” Solas answered. He met her gaze, giving her a small smile. “We cannot be sure of the effects on anyone else.”

“But you saw what she’s going to do?” Cassandra asked him urgently. 

Roslyn frowned, hand clenching at her side. “He did, and as we’re both still alive, perhaps you’ll lend me a bit of trust. I’ve faced worse than a horde of skeletons.” She stepped away as she saw Cassandra’s guilt flicker over her worried face. She knew she had. Coryphea and her archdemon had been worse. Envy had been worse. Fuck, she’d come out the other end of a wormhole’s ass still kicking and screaming. This should be nothing. “Be ready at my signal.”

“And what’s the signal?” Rylen asked, expression hard. 

“Presumably, someone’s head being tossed into the air.”

“Ah—your worship, did you want a sword?”

She raised her hand as she started forward, giving him a final wave. “No, I think I’ll just hop around a bit until the thane drops dead from exhaustion.”

A hand tugged at her elbow, and she turned to find Solas had broken from the group to approach her alone. “Take this after you close the rift,” he murmured, pressing a vial into her hand. At once, the sweet, humming vibration of lyrium rose the hair over her skin. “It might help counteract the fallout from interacting so closely with the Fade.”

Her fist closed around the vial, pushing back on her old, tired fear of shaking corridors and screaming children. 

She could no longer afford to let the past control her. 

“Where did you find this?”

His mouth twitched, causing moisture to slip over his lips. He had his hood up, but it was raining so hard now there was nothing any of them could do to keep dry. In the darkness, his eyes gleamed like bright chips of sea-stone. “I might have bargained for it off one of the former templars in Lieutenant Rylen’s company. He needed some— _discrete_ healing, and I was only too happy to oblige him. For a price.”

She snorted. “How noble of you. I suppose I owe you now.”

His thumb swiped across the back of her clenched palm, a brush of his aura teasing hers out. Comforting, with just a hint of something deeper. Want. Longing. Affection. No concern, though. Bless him for that. “Come back alive, and I will be happy to discuss your repayment.”

Tension spooled down her spine. “Kiss for good luck?”

His eyes snapped to hers, kindling fire in her core. There hadn’t been time to discuss what had happened with them yesterday, with preparations for this assault and Roslyn’s attempts to master the opening and closing of rifts without losing herself in the process. Stolen moments, slight touches—never hidden, but not displayed to the rest of the Inquisition. This was rather obvious, for him. For her too, if she were being honest.

“And distract you? I would not dare.” He grinned, left her with a more purposeful push of his aura, and stepped back. 

“Tease.” Shrugging off her cloak, she held it out with an arched brow. “Might as well make yourself useful.”

He inclined his head, his hand brushing hers once as he took it. “ _Enasala-ma,_ Inquisitor _._ ”

She frowned as he turned away, noticing Isahn’s sharp glance—and ignoring it. 

_Ready?_ she asked the wolf, cold water seeping through her light mail and gambeson. Her fingers brushed the hilt of Dagna’s sword, affixed to her belt with a small, resonant hum. She’d tested the blade a few times that morning, after her solitary practice, just to be sure the magic had held since leaving Skyhold. It felt just the same—just as sharp, just as solid. Just as eager to expand.

With a final look over the line of Inquisition soldiers, _her_ soldiers, she nodded to Cassandra and Rylen at the front, and turned. 

The road to Hargrave Keep cut through marshy land, more puddle than mud, weeds than grass. She did her best to walk confidently even as her feet sunk a few inches with every step. The first corpses were still ten yards away when they sensed her. 

A yawning moan drifted through the air, underlying the rain. When she was sure she was far enough away from her own people, when she could see the eerie violet glow from the eye sockets of the skulls, she raised the anchor. 

The wolf howled as she poured her will into the glyph, and the Fade opened over her head. White, radiant light spread out from her hand, forming a dome nearly twenty feet wide. Her senses rioted, but she held herself back, as she’d practiced. She could feel the shuddering pulse of the Fade, the urge to give in, to allow her body to phase fully out of the waking world—that sharp, aching longing—but she kept it in check. 

The first corpse threw itself toward her, unperturbed by the shining dome—and blew back in a cloud of dust quickly swallowed by the rain. 

She walked forward as, one by one, the corpses shambling over the field before Hargrave Keep broke against her dome. Pricks of violet drifted up into the lightning-strewn sky, each one a loss she registered, but could not feel. Not detached as she was. More light flashed at the edges of her vision, but she kept her mind focused—intent on the corpses still emerging out of the dark water. 

The fortress loomed in front of her, its towering granite facade seeming no more sturdy than a wall of sticks. She could press forward with her magic, reveal the cracks and upend the decades spent during its construction, rip stone from stone and reshape the earth. The physical world was so fragile. She’d never realized. She’d thought the Fade was more mutable, but it wasn’t truly. Nothing was every destroyed in full there, but here… Here the very matter around her seemed ready to break apart in a violent fit. It would be so easy to simply give it a push, a nudge, to pull on a string and unravel it all. 

Corpses kept coming and coming, and dimly she registered that her body was tiring. Channeling so much magic in such a short amount of time wore at her stamina. Again, she cursed her form. Too small. Too weak. 

The wolf helped, acting as a funnel through which the Fade energy coursed through her. Their harmonious act was new, and part of her chafed at the feeling of being monitored, but she shoved that urge to expand aside. It regulated the flow, watching her, waiting, snapping up corpses like fireflies at dusk while keeping the strength of her aura under constant watch. 

And then there were no more. The corpses were there and gone, in what felt like so short a span of time it couldn’t be possible. So many had swarmed the mud-strewn field, and now it was empty.

A lightning crack echoed down her spine. She gritted her teeth as the wolf severed the connection with the Fade. 

Crippling reality crashed down on her, and it was all she could do to keep her knees locked. Her hands shook as she uncorked the vial of lyrium, tipped it past trembling lips—and felt sweet, solid power flood her veins. 

It wasn’t the same, not nearly as overwhelming, but it was familiar. Tension and fear swirled past her mind as her body reveled in the sensation. If the Fade made everything seem transitory, unshaped, lyrium reforged her veins in steel. 

The wolf hated it, curing up into a ball in the back of her mind as the lyrium swarmed closer, but after a few moments, it subsided, settling beside the wolf like a river flowing past a boulder. The wolf was able to rise again, as powerful as it normally was, if leery of the strands of lyrium song twisting around it. Hovering close, but leaving it alone. 

The feeling was a bit like trying to balance on the edge of a knife while treading a needle.

_Sorry_ , she thought, trying to make the wolf understand. 

It brushed aside her thought, turning to stare with hungry eyes at the keep.

She held up her hand, conjuring flames of green and silver to light up her face. The darkness shied from her, not banished anymore, but held at bay. 

_Time to put on a show._

“I call upon the thane of Hargrave Keep, the one who claims to be the Red Hand of Korth!” Her voice carried over the thunder, the pounding rain. She hoped someone was listening, and watching, or else she’d look a right ass for screaming up at empty ramparts. The torches were there, but she couldn’t see much in the way of actual bodies. Her own vision seemed a pitiful thing compared to what the Fade had allowed her to see. “Are you craven, or will you answer my challenge?”

The thunder echoed her call, and a smile tugged at her lips. _Thank you, Lady_. 

Like a flag whipped about in the wind, she heard a cold, reedy voice shout, “Welcome, Inquisitor! Word has spread of your prowess. I’m loathe to admit the rumors do not live up to the reality.”

She squinted, but she could only make out the faint outlines of dark shapes amongst the flickering torches. “Who addresses me? Or is it the Avvar custom to hide your face behind shadows?”

Shouts of anger rose amongst the rain, quickly silenced. 

“I am the one they call Bard. No thane, merely a humble servant to the gods.”

“How ashamed must your gods be, then, to be worshipped by a blackheart who feeds on lies and trickery.” Another rumble of what might have been unease flitted amongst the watching Avvar. “I’ve come to challenge your thane, but I’ll settle for you. Face me, _rat_ , to answer for your crimes against the Inquisition.” She paused, letting the crack and boom of lightning and thunder fill the space. “Or I shall march on your fortress and tear it to the ground? Your army of rotting corpses couldn’t stop me. What do you think I’ll do to the crumbling stones you stand on?”

She swallowed her own discomfort at the lofty words, the feeling of eyes spearing through her out of the darkness. It was just a game, like any other. Just another exercise in Josephine’s endless lectures on pomp and grandeur. “Confidence and threats are simply tools,” the ambassador had told her—how many months ago? “to be applied judiciously when kindness and diplomacy have been removed from the table. Convince your foes you have no fear, and they will start to believe it as well.”

No answer. She stood, feeling that fragile confidence shake. If this didn’t work, if Bard was ordering her people to be killed right now while she just stood outside his fortress waiting for him to accept her foolish challenge—

A loud, echoing crank of gears broke through the thunder. The portcullis before her began to open, the lights of many torches gathering behind. 

Two figures stood in the shadow of the gate. One was hunched, wrapped in a tattered leather cloak. A wicked black staff clutched in a pale hand stood a head and a half taller than its hooded wielder, glinting like polished glass in the torchlight. 

The other was a hulking warrior, arms bare and wrapped in bands of rusted black iron. They stood nearly as tall as Amund, and were, somehow, even more imposing. Their long black hair fell ragged before their face, framing eyes which gleamed with an unearthly light. Red dye dripped from their lips in an imitation of blood, and Roslyn fought the urge to grimace. 

_So unnecessary_.

The cloaked figure stepped forward, and the warrior followed, a looming shadow behind the hobbling mage. They both stopped when they were a few yards away. 

“I’m surprised,” the voice came from the cloaked figure, whom she could now see had a long, forked beard, and yellow teeth which flashed between lips painted black as pitch, “to find your vanguard has not followed you. Do you underestimate us so?”

“My vanguard underestimates no one, myself included.” She tensed at the man’s oily laugh. “I have come to levy a challenge, for my people you stole and killed. For the curse you’ve inflicted on this land. For your work with the traitorous Venatori, who would throw this world into ruin at their mistress’s feet. My vanguard respects my right to trial by combat.”

He hummed in consideration, wrinkled, shriveled fingers drumming slowly against his staff. “Such honor from a lowlander is strange—what do my cousins make of you, I wonder.”

“This child has no honor,” the warrior spat in a broken, harsh tone. “Let the Red Hand of Korth crush her to the ground.”

She eyed them, specifically the large axe held in their monstrous grip. It was even bigger than Iron Bull’s. She hadn’t thought that was possible.

“You wanted a challenge, Inquisitor,” Bard mused, gesturing toward the warrior at his side. “I present my thane, the Red Hand herself. May your Braving be bloody, and your steel cut true.”

Roslyn wrapped her hand around the hilt of her sword, looking between the pair with unease. “My grievance lies with you, Bard, as well as your…thane.”

“So it does,” he shifted, almost as if he were cocking his head at her in consideration, “and yet, I simply follow the will of my thane, and the gods. Everything I did, I did for the Red Hand.”

Her jaw clenched as she stared. The hood obscured his eyes and the majority of his face, but that blackness pulled at something in the back of her mind. _Shadows and darkness_. 

“Fine,” she said, pulling out the hilt of her sword and stepping back. Her marked hand winked out, and what little light she’d had to see the two by was gone. They loomed against the torches behind them, grown larger and more menacing. “But when I’m done with your thane, I will come for you. You will answer for your crimes, _snake_.”

The skulls of the Tranquil flashed bright in her mind’s eye. 

Bard bowed, tipping his head back just slightly to show the yellow, jagged teeth between his ichor-black lips. His pale hands swept like claws in front of him. 

The warrior-thane beat her breast with the handle of her axe, the sound pounding as she stepped toward Roslyn. An errant thought whipped through her mind, as if the ground should be shaking, beaten to a deep rhythm by the vibration of drums, the resonant marching of thousands of feet… 

“Where is your sword, little _Herald?”_ The thane laughed, the sound gouging out the mud between them with an almost physical slice. “Do you expect to frighten me with your pretty lights? You have not faced a true warrior. You have not faced an _Avvar_.”

Roslyn focused on her opponent and backed up until she was closer to the center of the field, away from the fortress. She needed space, and couldn’t afford to catch any of the other Avvar in her wake. According to Rhaella, if it appeared that she was breaking the rules of the Braving, the challenge would be forfeit—and with it the lives of her people in their dungeon. 

“Why do you run, girl?” The thane laughed, spitting red ink through the rain. It bled down over her lips to stain her teeth grotesquely. “ _Face_ me, or have you reconsidered?”

Roslyn stopped, letting the rain sluice down her back as the remnants of lyrium pulsed in her veins. She was cold, but she couldn’t feel it. She was tired, but she couldn’t feel it. And if she was scared, she could not feel that either. 

There was something…primal moving in her blood. As if she knew this fight, and had faced it before. As if this challenge were written into the fabric of her soul. One on one, until her opponent’s head sailed into the air. Until she ripped it from their shoulders. 

She grinned, moving into a ready stance, the hilt of her sword held out, ready. The magic thudded in her grip, waiting for the right moment to activate. “Are you going to posture, or are we going to fight?”

The thane roared, lunged forward. Her axe swung in a cutting arc down toward Roslyn’s head. 

She dodged at the last second, letting the wolf speed her reflexes. The axe hit the ground and lodged in the mud. She looked up into the eyes of the thane as the warrior snapped her head forward—black and glowing with a malevolent spark—and threw up a shield. The thane’s forehead slammed into hers with a resounding crack, but Roslyn only grit her teeth as the pressure flared, as she felt nothing but the impact, and met it without yielding. 

The woman lost her footing as she reared backward in the wave of her force magic, axe dislodging from the mud as she flailed. Roslyn paced back as the thane hit the ground, watching her get to her feet with an almost excited satisfaction. 

Her grip tightened, but she didn’t call up her blade. Not yet. 

Too soon, and the Avvar wouldn’t accept her victory. The Braving was as much as a show as a test. She needed to beat her opponent, but not too soon. Too soon, and they might turn against her. 

She glanced back over her shoulder to see Bard’s staff glowing. So he was aiding his thane. Rhaella had told her to expect as much. Nothing was barred from a Braving, no advantage unfair, so long as the Avvar thought they were evenly matched. And she had to admit, she was coming into this with more than a bit of help.

Roslyn turned just as the woman straightened to her full height, black hair splattered now with mud, the red of her teeth gone brown like shit. Again, she charged, but this time Roslyn met her attack. 

She poured her aura into the blade, silver metal of molten starlight coalescing as an extension of her hand. The thane’s eyes widened in alarm just as the jagged edge of her axe met Roslyn’s spectral steel.

The field was thrown once more into sharp relief, and Roslyn saw the shadows under the thane’s eyes, the darkness bleeding through her veins like worms. With a yell of her own, she shoved the woman back, only a foot—she didn’t have the thane’s brute strength, not without more magic—and pivoted to slice across her upper thigh where her armor was thin.

The thane’s cry matched the thunder for its intensity. 

Roslyn danced back, watching the wound smoke and spurt blood. She couldn’t help her grin as she paced. Her blade moved like any other sword, but faster, harder. Her will shaped it, and she could feel the edges like it was her own hand, her own, fearsome talon.

She was going to kiss Dagna when she got back to Skyhold.

She rotated the sword in her hand, the light throwing dazzling arcs against the heavy rain. Exhilaration and adrenaline widened her smile. “Come on then,” she egged, her voice carrying in the silence between thunder claps. “Or are my _pretty lights_ too much for you?”

The thane roared and charged again, but this time, there was something different. She moved faster and the air warped. The shadows coalesced around her axe—whispers pulled at Roslyn’s mind. Madness, rage, the burning, pulsing blood of the world—all of it swarmed her, and for a moment she could not move. Caught in a familiar feeling that shook her to her core. 

The axe came down, and this time it was all she could do to twist out of the way before it severed her neck. The blade nicked her shoulder, and where it cut she felt her skin burn as it sliced through her barrier like a dagger through silk. Heart beating in her throat now, she didn’t see the thane’s hand lunge for her neck. 

Fingers closed over her throat—and her mind split. 

_A gauntlet closes over her throat and she screams as the lyrium slams into her chest_ —

The lyrium roaring in her blood rose, fueling her blade, and she screamed in fury. Twisting, she seared through the thane’s outstretched upper arm, blood splattering onto her face where it flew through the rain. 

The fingers loosened their grip as the arm fell to the ground. Her aura expanded to shove the thane back. Her shoulder screamed as she felt something burn through her blood. Poison? The lyrium rose and pulsed in her mind, just as the wolf growled. The anchor sputtered and shot green sparks onto the severed forearm at her feet.

_Time to finish this_.

She twisted her hilt to face pommel upright and cast a fist of the Maker to slam into the thane’s torso. The woman flew off the ground and five feet into the air as Roslyn’s magic gouged a piece from her stomach and spilled out her intestines. 

Roslyn shot forward before the thane hit the ground, adjusting her grip and slamming the brilliant tip of her sword into her chest. 

Blood, running black now as well as red, fountained upward from the thane’s mouth as she screamed into the sky. Eyes sparking with madness, her other hand came up and grabbed the smoking, subtle edge of Roslyn’s sword. Her smile was a horrible thing as she gripped past the searing smell of flesh and shoved the hilt upward.

It slammed into Roslyn’s chin, not hard enough to break her jaw, but it was enough to disorient her for a moment. The thane should be dead. Her body was coming apart. How was the woman still moving? The thane roared as she surged upright, spurred on by an unnatural bloodlust that seemed to only get wilder as her body failed. 

The woman’s rank breath hit Roslyn’s face as she backpedaled, pulling back her sword.

Twisting with one last cry of effort, she sliced her blade through the thane’s neck. 

The head flew off in an arc. Blood spurted upright. For a moment, Roslyn feared the body would continue to fight even without its head. 

But the knees buckled, the axe dropped, and the headless thane thudded to the ground next to it. 

Roslyn caught her breath, staring down at the reeking body with a grimace. The axe still vibrated on the ground, swirling with inky black shadows. She bent, picked it up. Her stomach flipped at the horrible sensation it brought to her touch. Screaming madness, a hunger to _kill_ —Roslyn shattered the weapon with a lance of arcane light and tossed the smoking shards back to its owner.

The field went silent. It was then she realized that the rain had lessened, and the thunder was only a distant rumble over the hills. 

An aura flared behind her. The piercing shriek of a hawk, the oozing reek of tainted blood—and something slammed into her mind. 

Her vision went black. She choked on an agonized scream. Claws made of the Void dug under her skin. 

Silence. 

Oppressive, overwhelming, _silence_.

The bright flame in her chest burned white-hot. The wolf howled across a vast distance. The lyrium beating in her heart flared to life. And the foreign tendril of silence faltered.

Her knees buckled. She hit the ground inches from the thane’s corpse. White, burning light slammed back the darkness as her aura reasserted itself. Hands inches deep in the mud and blood and mire of this skeleton-filled marsh, she saw black and red snakes of magic swarm over her forearms. 

The same black and red magic Coryphea had used to cripple her in Haven. 

She jerked back to her feet, whipping her head around to see Bard with his pale, clawed hand reaching toward her, magic burning in his eyes under his cloak. 

The shout of outrage went up from the Inquisition somewhere behind her, but she didn’t listen. Anger rose up to replace her terror, and she picked up her sword, calling forth her blade again. This time the white energy trailed silver smoke. 

Over the distance, she could have sworn she saw the sorcerer’s eyes widen in surprise, before he turned and fled.

She felt the ground shake with the movement of her soldiers, but she was already running. The wolf ran with her, pouring speed and strength into her feet as she shot toward the fortress. The portcullis groaned as lines were cut, slamming down before her. But her hand was up. Ready. The anchor blazed. A boulder wreathed in green fire tore through the Veil and slammed through the gate, wrenching metal, blasting a hole. An entrance.

She ignored the cries of the Avvar soldiers, tripping over themselves to drop their weapons and get out of her way. 

Her mind was fixed on that sensation of silence. That horrible, crippling, _emptiness_. 

If Bard could weave such magics, she would not suffer him to live. 

The trail of his aura led her through the fortress, smashing through doors shut moments before she met them, glyphs of fire and ice laid in her path. Her barrier winked in and out and she fought to keep it up, to focus her mind beyond the shrieking, raging denial thudding in her chest. 

She burst out onto an open courtyard, dripping with rainwater and reeking of twisted magic. Her heart pounded. The adrenaline in her veins cried out for something to break, something to kill, something to prove that she was not silent, she was not caged, she was _not_ helpless. 

Only a few yards ahead of her, Bard threw off his leather cloak, black shadows twisting as the Veil was rent open by blood magic. It rippled before her as a demon of rage broke through in a fiery, towering roar. It was large, and might have once scared her into hesitating.

She raised her marked hand and crushed it. Just as she had all those years ago in her Harrowing. 

But it cost her time to seal the Veil. Time that Bard took to flee into the dark doorway. 

Roslyn paused for a moment at the threshold. That same part of her shrieking in defiance at the silence refused to go into the small dark hole, to throw herself down under stone and earth, to bury herself. She shoved it aside, pouring more energy into her blade, and ran forward. 

The hallway was dark, sloping. No matter how much light she conjured, the blackness in front of her seemed to shift and bend, to slide out of her way but never truly fade. Almost as if it was letting her pass. She ran, and ran, listening for any sound of Bard’s escape. Was this a path to a dungeon? An entrance to an underground network of tunnels?

Her breath came fast as she tried to hold onto her anger. Claustrophobia set in, at the edges of her sight, in the echo of her own pounding footsteps. The tunnel grew rough, transitioning from smooth stone to jagged rock. The air grew colder. Harder.

_Keep going_ , she told herself. The wolf rose and lent her focus, though she could feel its own unease. It was a being born of the Fade, of the shifting heavens. It hated the cold dark just as much as she did. 

The lyrium was fading fast, her chest starting to ache and her hands tremble. She’d channeled too much magic too fast. She needed to rest, to recover. 

But she could not let the sorcerer go, not after she’d felt his power. It wasn’t as strong, nowhere near as strong as Coryphea’s, but it was there. Hovering in front of her like a black knife poised to strike at her heart. The same power she’d felt in her vision of that Tevene priestess on her tower, where a man wrapped in darkness had broken the earth and buried a city. 

More tunnels branched out from the main one, but she kept going, following the trail of the sorcerer’s aura. Down and down she went, further than should have been possible in a swamp. Had it been only minutes? How long had she been running?

The flicker of distant echoes broke against her mind, magic, auras, or something else, but she forced herself to keep going. 

The tunnel turned sharply into a wide chamber. She skidded to a halt as her heart leapt into her throat. Light from her sword cast shadows over the walls—gouged out of the surrounding rock with a rough, uneven hand. In some places, it looked as if the stone had been carved by massive claws.

The silence fell around her. She took a step forward, trying to see through the darkness. 

The chamber stretched before her, extending beyond the range of her sword’s light. The sound of her heavy breathing whispered against the massive cavern, bouncing back at her and amplifying in the sudden silence. As if there were other people in the darkness, breathing just as hard as she was.

And then the darkness parted, as if a black cloth had been pulled back, to reveal two black obelisks standing beside a mound of white stone. Like a mockery of an altar to fuel Bard’s necromancy. Her heart threw itself against her sternum as she paced forward, cut her sword through the air with a savage cry, and broke the pillars. She did not think about how closely they resembled those from her vision of the high priestess. She did not feel the sick energy emanating from them—broken spirits mingled with the mages the Venatori had been farming from the Hinterlands. They cracked and screamed with the phantom voice of thousands of unrealized spirits, the pain of the Tranquil sitting before her in the obscene boulder of bone and gleaming shard. She conjured a gauntlet of bristling green and smashed the boulder. And again, and again, until it was nothing more than a scattering of white and silver dust. 

She stumbled away from the configuration, from the smoking remains of the obelisks still bleeding black and red smoke. So focused was she on getting away, on getting it out, _out_ , that she hadn’t realized she’d stepped further into the darkness. 

She whipped around. Her grip tightened. Her sword bristled with light. Cold sweat stood out on her neck and back, running down her temples. She frowned, drawing on the wolf’s sight to see through the pitch black. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t see anything.

She stared into the darkness before her, frozen, caught. The chamber warped, and though she didn’t move, the walls seemed to close in on her. They shrank, and she shrank with them. 

_Eyes. Thousands of eyes._

The darkness regarded her, and she could do nothing but stand there, shaking. She dare not blink, for the darkness might shift if she faltered. Her heart pounded against her sternum, screaming, telling her to run, to wake—

_Run, she must keeping running. It will find her, the eyes—_

One burning tear slipped down her cheek. A sigh—soft and gentle, a sigh full of knowledge, and secrets—seemed to reach out. A shape formed in the darkness. 

And that silence pressed its velvet lips to the center of her brow. 

“Not again.”

The voice cut through her paralysis. Familiar, comforting, not the one she’d been expecting. The walls snapped back to their proper place. The darkness was impenetrable, but lifeless. She jerked around to find Cole standing at the mouth of the chamber, staring past her with huge, luminous eyes. Eyes clouded with tears. 

“No, no, I can’t go back,” he mumbled, hands shaking as he fumbled with his dagger. “Not again. I remember. I remember now. I want to stay.”

_Remember_.

She shoved the echo of the winged woman’s warning aside. “Cole, what’s wrong?” Her voice came out harsh and broken in the silence. 

“The shadow, the darkness, the killing, I _can’t_. I’m more than that. I became _more_ —”

Roslyn moved toward him, forcing herself to walk away from the darkness. She pressed a hand to his cheek, startling him backward. Shadows writhed over his chest. 

She had to swallow her immediate spike of fear and revulsion. 

“There’s nothing there,” she said, more forcefully than she meant to. “I lost him. There’s nothing down here.” The words weren’t for Cole, but she spoke them aloud all the same. “We have to go. _Cole_. We have to go.”

_Leave. Leave now._

He blinked, eyes focusing on her. “I can’t go back. I’m not a ghost. I’m _not_ a ghost.”

She wrapped a firm hand around his wrist and tugged, pulling him behind her as she walked back into the tunnel. The shadow at the back of her mind seemed almost forlorn as she left. Beckoning.

_It’s not real. There’s nothing there._

There was no shadow at her back. There was nothing there in the darkness. She was tired. She was afraid. 

There was nothing there.

Cole continued murmuring under his breath, his arm trembling in her grip. She wanted to stop and comfort him, but it was all she could do to keep walking. His aura flickered and phased, as if he were trying to keep himself present, to pull himself back from something. Perhaps the same something that was calling to her. 

It was only when she was back in the smooth passage, crafted like the rest of the fortress, that she realized her wolf had gone silent. It came back to her at once, wary, alarmed as it sniffed at her, circled her, sent her questioning thoughts that seemed to slide off her mind. Wherever this tunnel led, it seemed to repel the Fade. 

The last of her lyrium burned out as she walked, and the pain descended. Her shoulder burned. Her body ached. Her temples pinched in a vice. She could hardly breathe, but she kept moving. Kept pulling Cole with her. They needed to get out. 

Get out.

_Come back._

Shouts echoed down the tunnel. When she recognized Solas’s voice, followed closely by Isahn’s, she relaxed. There were other people waiting for her. She was not alone in the dark with this shadow of a boy. There was an end. A way out. “We’re down here!”

The soft, swift footfalls of bare feet came toward them with a flicker of radiant blue light. Solas, with the end of his staff lit appeared around a bend in the tunnel. Expression flat, ready—he halted at the sight of her practically dragging Cole up the passage. 

“He’s—help him,” she muttered, guiding Cole in front of her. The young man was still shaking, but his muttering had stopped. 

Solas’s brow creased, alarm flitting across his eyes as he looked at her. His lips parted. She shook her head, sent a meager thread of her aura to him. _Not now. Please._

She couldn’t stop now. Not with the tunnel at her back. Not while she still had the horrible urge to turn around.

Isahn came around the bend behind Solas, his own wisps of orange light making the small tunnel suddenly too bright. “What happened?” He ran his sharp, assessing gaze over her. “Where’s the sorcerer?”

Roslyn walked forward, jaw clenched as she fought the urge to scream. _Out of the tunnel. Get out of the tunnel._

“ _Da’shyl_ —”

“ _Out_ ,” she snapped, blade sparking white as her control slipped. “I’ll explain on the surface.”

He held her gaze, seeing the panic in her eyes. Without a word, he moved behind her, and nodded. 

That small, simple gesture, him putting himself between her and the darkness, made all the difference. Another tear slipped from her eyes as she turned forward.

Cole’s muttering broke through Solas’s comforting words as they made their way back up to the fortress. 

“I won’t go back. I can’t go back. I’m different now.”

They seemed to resonate inside Roslyn’s chest, the flicker of warmth growing brighter with each repetition. The misty, open air as she left the last of the tunnel felt sweeter than the sharpest mountain breeze. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. I'm sorry for getting this one up late. I fell back into a bad place, and it was kind of hard to summon any kind of motivation. I hope you like this chapter, as it's one I've been looking forward to for a long, long time. I'm a little obsessed. Also, to anyone who read the very first draft of Ascendant a few years ago, I put in this fight for you <3
> 
> Love you guys, always.


	41. Through Diamond Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Wisdom Cries" by AURORA](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vFf-qGxxT18&t=0s&index=43&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S)

The room stank of rotting blood, so thick and oppressive that Roslyn’s eyes were beginning to water. 

The walls were painted in archaic symbols, some of them looking almost familiar, some of them slashed through with more ink, some defaced with pock-marks—as if their maker had thrown acid at the walls in a fit of anger. 

Over it all laid eyes. Crude, rendered in white paint, dripping. As if, no matter how many symbols, how many secrets Bard uncovered, he always ended with eyes. 

She’d been standing in this room for the better part of half an hour, after ensuring that her people who had been captured were unharmed and whole, and still she couldn’t bear to go through the notes, to touch the pile of bleached white skulls heaped against the back wall, to figure out what this man was doing. It reeked of lunacy. She was afraid that if she touched it, uncovered any shred of it, she would contract the same madness. 

Or she might destroy everything to be rid of it, and they needed all the information they could get. She couldn’t risk losing any clue, any hint as to what Bard had been doing. 

The only thing she had been able to pick up was a leather case of thin, engraved vials. Compared to the rest of the ramshackle room, they were finely made—the case stitched with silver thread, a red silk seal pressed into the front flap, the vials made of carefully blown glass to give the effect of a beast swallowing the liquid at its end. Five of nine vials remained, capped and sealed with wax, four slots empty in the pressed leather. The opaque, nearly black liquid coated the sides of the glass, so thick it barely moved when she tipped it to one side. 

She had no knowledge of tonics or potions. She’d never had the aptitude for leaning formulas and measurements, for sitting in the basement of Aiden’s Tower with the Tranquil, slowly uncovering the secrets of the natural world. She had a guess as to what this was, what it might be. 

Blood. 

Iron Bull had told her in passing that the Qun distilled dragon blood to feed their warriors, to increase their rage and bloodlust, to make them fearsome soldiers. She knew a bit of the infamous Nevarran warriors who had driven themselves mad drinking the blood of the beasts they’d nearly hunted to extinction, but she’d never broached the topic with Cassandra. For some reason, she thought the woman would be less than enthusiastic to share her family’s bloody past.

Had the Red Hand taken these before their fight? Was that how she had managed to push herself past dismemberment? Had Bard also figured out a way to leech the power of a dragon?

A severed head on a table stone. Eyes white like curdled milk. A warrior with hands drenched in blood. 

The vials _drummed_ in her hands. They beat like another heart. A heart which whispered of hunger, and rage.

Roslyn stared down at them, and the flame in her chest danced. The space in the back of her mind which was blank and wrong seemed to grow harder, more solid. She could not banish the image of the dragon’s head, the blood leaking over her own hands. The perversion. The oppression. 

The silence.

Footsteps came down the hall. Before she could think, she slid the pouch into her pocket, not knowing why she could not put them back on the table with the rest of Bard’s mad detritus. She turned just as Cassandra raised her hand to knock on the open door. 

“Are they ready?”

Cassandra blinked in surprise, stumbling over whatever she’d been about to say. “I…believe so. Apparently, one of the wardens is related to Hawke.”

She nodded, unable to conjure anything more than dim amusement. “Another family reunion. Wonderful.”

Cassandra’s eyes went sharp, assessing. She took a step into the room. “Roslyn, are you—”

“Fine. Let’s go.” She walked past Cassandra, pausing in the dim hall light. She kept her gaze forward, anywhere but on the eye-strewn walls and the pile of Tranquil skulls. “I need someone to go through this mess, to figure out what the fuck he was doing. I couldn’t make anything of it. Hall, maybe. Or Harding, if she feels up to it. Dorian might be able to see some sense in it. I’ll ask him, but if I forget—”

“Of course,” Cassandra said after a moment, relenting to the caged look in Roslyn’s eyes.

The prisoners had been kept well in the lower dungeons, apart from the three scouts the Avvar had beheaded to bait her. They’d been fed regularly, allowed to wash and walk freely through their own cells. It was a surprisingly humane situation she’d found when she came out of that tunnel and seen her soldiers rounding up the surrendering Avvar. It could have been much worse. She could have found them tortured and hanging on to life. She could have found more of her people dead. 

She tried to remember that when she felt silence creep into her mind.

Hawke, Sera, and Amund had volunteered to pick off the rest of the corpses Roslyn had missed in her initial purge, and were currently traipsing through the mud in the surrounding fields to ensure there were no more surprises waiting for them when they left. The destruction of the altar should have stopped any more dead from rising, but Dorian thought there might be residual necromantic energy in the swamp. As for the others, she’d left to their own devices. Most were seeing to the captured scouts or guarding the Avvar. 

Roslyn felt Cassandra’s eyes boring into the back of her skull, but she walked down the hallway without a backward glance. She hadn’t spoken to anyone else since coming up from the tunnel. She’d found her people, told the Avvar who bent the knee that they would be shown the mercy they’d refused to show her scouts, and if they proved themselves useful, might even have the chance to repay their debt to the Inquisition. 

She had ignored Isahn’s lingering glance, Cassandra’s attempts at conversation, Dorian, Varric—all of them. She hated herself for feeling relief that Solas had taken Cole somewhere quiet to help him calm down, but she didn’t think she’d be able to hide from him.

Because part of her still felt like she was trapped under the earth in that dark, gaping cavern. And if she opened her mouth to speak of it, she would start screaming. 

Harding and her team had been given what they’d been able to scavenge from the fortress, but the Avvar did not seem to be fond of many creature comforts. They had ale, meat, and furs, and a surprising amount of scavenged weapons, but not much in the way of intact furniture. The rest they would need to do without. 

She and Cassandra made their way across the fortress’s upper levels to what might have once been the great hall. It was the only room large enough which still had a functioning roof in one corner, though the rain had mostly stopped. The sky remained grey, hints of darker violet churning behind the dark mass of clouds. 

The gathered company was small. Warden Aeducan with her husband, Rainier, wrapped in a warm blanket and sitting beside him near the fire in the center of the hall. Harding firmly refusing another cup of ale from a harried but relieved-looking Rylen. Two other men, both of them tall, both of them human, with black hair and circles under their eyes. One was young, handsome, with bright blue eyes that seemed older than his unlined face and a square, firm chin. The other was old, with a rather frayed-looking mustache and grey leeching into his temples. Varric stood by the younger one, muttering something angry under his breath as the man just looked at him with a slight, sardonic smile. 

Dorian stood on the other side of the party, talking in stilted, forced conversation to Rhaella and the two dwarves they’d found in the lower cells with Warden Aeducan. Dorian was speaking, anyway. All three women were merely staring at him.

_Twins_ , Roslyn assumed as she scanned the dwarves, as they could have passed for identical copies if not for their differing hair and the slight variation in their facial tattoos. One had black braids looped many times over to form a kind of loose nest while the other had shaved the bottom half of her head and wore her hair short on the top. Both had dark, intelligent eyes, and both had similarly inked faces in bright, vibrant blue ink. Their tattoos were different than Isahn’s vallaslin, geometric and sharp, looking more like the runes she’d seen in the Deep Roads of Crestwood, and nearly an inch wide were it ran down the center of their faces. One, the woman with long ropes of hair, had white dots under her eyes as well. They looked young, younger even than Harding, though they held themselves with confidence. Rhaella stood over their heads, mouth canted to one side as she watched Dorian with her lopsided gaze.

All of them went quiet when she walked into the room. The walk through the center aisle reminded her of her first walk through Skyhold, moving through piles of rotten wood and discarded finery. More holes than walls and the first signs of nature creeping up over the exposed stonework.

But there was no feeling of security here. No comforting aura sliding around her. There was only silence in this dripping hall. And the feeling that she was being watched. 

“Harding,” she said when she stopped close by, trying for a smile, “I’m glad to see you’re healthy enough to give Rylen a hard time.”

The dwarf drew herself up and grimaced, her freckled cheeks grown a bit sharp, her coloring a bit pale, but looking whole, healthy enough. “So am I, your worship. Though, I have to say I was a bit miffed when you lot showed up to break us out. I was working on a plan. It was going to be very impressive.”

Rylen’s expression grew dark. “You were not.”

“Why not? This place is falling apart. I would have figured it out soon enough.”

“Of course you would have,” Roslyn said before Rylen could say anything more. 

Harding sighed, looking up at her with shining eyes. “Can’t tell you what a relief it was to hear you’d arrived, Inquisitor. Thank you.”

Roslyn gave her a half-hearted nod, unable to bear the sincerity. She looked over the wardens, seeing guarded, suspicious looks in each of their eyes. “How are you all doing?”

The two men looked at each other, and then to Aeducan, whose mouth twitched in the hint of a smile. Her pale skin looked wan, the dark circles under her eyes more pronounced than they had been the last time Roslyn had seen her, but her straight blonde hair was just as sharp. Her bearing was just as noble.

Roslyn ignored the memory of the dwarf’s dagger pressed to her back, the feeling of helplessness her chipped blue eyes stirred when they fell on her. 

Aeducan slid off Rainier’s lap, standing and rolling her shoulders back, command folding into her expression with a crisp efficiency. “We’ll be fine, Inquisitor. Your healer says we have no lasting damage, only a bit of hunger and dehydration. Nothing a few night’s sleep cannot heal.”

Roslyn blinked. She hadn’t heard that Solas had looked at them. She’d been too busy standing in Bard’s room, staring at his wall of eyes. 

“Good,” she said, skating over her slight pause. “I’m glad.”

The older warden stared intently at Aeducan, seeming to judge her assessment of Roslyn. Finally he stood, sketching a short, if formal, bow. “I owe you my gratitude as well, Inquisitor.” He had a smooth, cultured voice. _Orlesian_ , she guessed. “My name is Stroud.”

There was a pause, before he turned to the younger man with an arched brow, who scowled, but kept his silence. 

“Carver is also thankful,” Varric said through gritted teeth as his hands clenched. “Even if he’s too much of an idiot to say so himself.”

Roslyn watched his scowl deepen, trying to see the resemblance to Hawke. There was something, perhaps, in the broad chin and the large nose, but this man looked paler, sterner, than both of his siblings. _He’s got the attitude, though_.

“Right,” he finally said, though he remained seated. “Thanks.”

Varric actually ground his teeth together. “I can’t believe I forgot how stupid you could be.”

Carver ignored him as he studied Roslyn. “Sorry for not throwing myself at your feet, _your worship_ ,” he said slowly, without malice, but with a rather obvious hint of incredulity. “Never been one for boot licking. I’m just waiting to find out what you want in exchange for saving us.”

The hall was silent as Roslyn and Carver Hawke stared each other down. 

_At least he’s honest._ She fought a smile. “The Wardens have been massing in the Korcari Wilds, withdrawing from Ferelden, Orlais, and the Free Marches. They’re planning something.” She watched his face tighten. “I want to know if it has anything to do with Coryphea.”

Carver’s jaw clenched. 

“Or do you not think the arrival of one of the original darkspawn and an archdemon concerns the Grey Wardens?”

“It’s not an archdemon,” he muttered.

Roslyn’s brow arched. “It certainly looked like one the last time it tried to kill me.”

Stroud crossed his arms, face dark. “With all due respect, Inquisitor, it cannot be an archdemon. Wardens can sense these things. We would know if we were in the midst of another Blight.”

“And yet you’re convinced you’re all about to die, right?” She looked to Rainier and Aeducan, both of whom were watching the conversation with guarded expressions. “You can see why I’m reluctant to take anything you tell me on your word alone.”

“Because you know better than us?” Carver said with a grunt. 

“I’d say that I do, _Warden Hawke_ ,” Roslyn said, low. “Over a thousand of my people are dead because you and your brother couldn’t kill Coryphea ten years ago. I’m not interested in you claiming any kind of surety when it comes to that bitch.”

He didn’t drop her gaze, but something about his expression faltered. 

“Warden Hawke is right, your worship,” Aeducan started carefully. “Whatever the thing you fought in Haven is, it isn’t a true archdemon. We would feel its influence. We would feel the horde massing. Even with this false Calling, no warden who has lived and fought through a Blight would miss the signs.”

Roslyn met her gaze, trying not to feel the knife again in her back. “Let’s say I believe you about this not being a Blight. What are the Wardens doing this far south? Last time we spoke, you thought Clarel was intending to do something final to ensure that no more Blights would occur. You mentioned blood magic. Please tell me you know _something_ more than suspicions and theories.”

Rainier nodded. “We do. This Bard—he’s working with the Venatori. All this chaos here in the swamp was just a side effect of what he was doing.” He grimaced. “Ah—it’s a bit over my head…”

He turned to the two dwarves and waved them to speak. 

The one with the shaved head gave Roslyn a menacing smile, bearing her teeth as she revealed two silver spikes where her canines had once been. The other, however, seemed contemplative, watching Roslyn with wide, curious eyes. 

It was the second who spoke up. “Have you ever heard of the Doors of Delgatan?”

Roslyn frowned. “Should I have?”

“Perhaps not,” the dwarf continued, her voice high and clear, ringing like a tuning fork. “Our northern brethren seem to have guarded their secrets well.” Her black eyes flicked to Aeducan. 

“You and your sister might have abandoned the Stone, _nelka_ ,” Aeducan snapped, “but Orzammar keeps our history safe.”

The dwarf with the shaved head’s grin grew wider, eyes going sharp.

“Strange words,” her sister mused, apparently unconcerned with Aeducan’s dismissal, “for one who abandoned her house to take up with these _mak-gonguneth_.”

Aeducan advanced, her bright eyes flashing with anger. Rainier placed himself between her and the two younger dwarves, neither of whom had so much as flinched. 

“Who are you?” Roslyn asked. 

“Did Raven-Eye not tell you?” the dwarf with the shaved head asked casually, flexing her bare arms as she crossed them over her chest. 

Rhaella cleared her throat softly. “These two are old friends, Herald. They traveled with me from my hold at the end of spring to determine the reason for the tremors in the earth. They know more than anyone else what transpires under the ground. Heed their counsel.”

Roslyn looked back at the two dwarves, some part of her shifting in unease. _Doors_. _Under the earth._ The mage she had encountered at Wisdom’s binding had known something of doors. Had been killing Tranquil to find shards to _open_ them. 

“Go on then,” she said.

The dwarf with the braids turned back to her, the hint of a smile on her lips. It was every bit as frightening as her sister’s. “One of the Doors of Delgatan has been found by the unworthy. Someone is trying to break them open, and the Stone is fighting back.”

Cassandra frowned. “What do you mean, the stone is _fighting?”_

“You’ve felt the ground shake beneath your feet, _belok_ ,” the dwarf continued airily. “The Stone doesn’t like being disturbed. It is trying to defend itself. It cares nothing for those who live outside of its embrace.”

“You’re both mad,” Aeducan muttered. 

“What is she talking about?” Roslyn countered. “What are these doors?”

Aeducan took a moment to collect herself, the fine lines of her face growing sharper, more pronounced. “The Shaperate has memories of places in the ancient kingdoms of old, before the darkspawn crippled us. Doors, more or less, which marked the vast edges of our empire and opened onto the abyss, where the Old Ones dwelt in the blackness of creation.”

Roslyn’s brow raised. 

“They’ve been lost for millennia,” Aeducan said with a dark look to the two younger dwarves. “No one knows where they are, or if they even existed.”

“Maybe they have been lost to you, cousin,” the dwarf with dots under her eyes mused. 

Roslyn fought a scowl. “You never told me who you were.”

Again, an absent smile tugged at the young dwarf’s lips. The effect was disconcerting. “You may call me Qestyra. This is my sister, Boreya.”

“And you’re not from Orzammar?”

Qestyra blinked slowly. “No.”

She looked from the twins to Aeducan. “And this fits in with the Wardens how?”

Aeducan’s jaw clenched. It was Stroud who said, “The last thing I heard from my superiors before I was forced to flee was that the Warden Commander was devising a way to awake an old, powerful entity. Something older than the Blights, older than the darkspawn. She believed this entity might enable us to destroy the darkspawn for good.”

Older than the darkspawn? Was she mad? 

Dorian seemed to agree with her. “And Clarel thought that was a good idea?” He laughed sharply. “I say, I can understand why you all decided to run off to this southern mire. If no one’s around to question this insanity, you can’t be persuaded to stop.”

“Watch it, Tevinter,” Carver practically growled. “You don’t understand.”

“I think he understands more clearly than _you_ ,” Cassandra said sharply, stepping forward. Dorian’s eyes widened in surprise as she continued, “The Wardens are playing with forces they do not understand, and doing it without the consultation of the rest of the world. What they do could be catastrophic. If your Warden Commander fails, what might she unleash? Does she even know?”

“The Wardens think they’re _dying_ ,” Carver shouted back. “They don’t have a choice. It’s this or let the world be consumed in the next Blight.”

Cassandra threw her hands into the air. “But you’re _not_ dying. This Calling is manufactured!”

“They don’t know that.” Carver stood, using his full height to look down on them all. “This isn’t a question of right or wrong, it’s a question of what we can do to ensure the rest of the world keeps on fighting long after we’ve all died to _save_ your sorry asses.”

“Enough,” Roslyn said before Cassandra could respond. 

The conversation was cutting too close for her own comfort. Questions of necessity and making the wrong choice flashed before her mind. 

It was different. The Wardens were choosing for the rest of the world. She had only chosen for herself. 

“It doesn’t matter _why_ they’re doing it,” she continued, forcing herself to meet each and every warden’s gaze. “They’re playing straight into Coryhpea’s hand, even if they don’t know it. Bard is working with the Venatori, which means she’s behind all of this.”

Silence descended over the hall. The makeshift hearth flickered eerily, as if it quailed from the tension around it. 

Stroud began, softly, “Clarel is a good woman, Inquisitor. She is only doing what she believes is best.”

“If that’s true,” Roslyn said slowly, “then she can be convinced to stop.”

Carver exhaled through his nostrils. “Aye, she might. But not while every warden south of the Waking Sea hears the Calling. You can’t argue with that. No one could.”

“About that,” Rainier said, giving an almost furtive look over the assembled group. “I, ah—I felt something earlier today. When you used your mark,” he added uncomfortably.

Roslyn frowned when he didn’t continue, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. “I realize it can be unsettling for people who haven’t seen me use it before—”

“No, not that,” he started, rubbing a hand along his beard. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but I figured it would be terrifying to watch. I mean that I—for a moment, I could hear the false Calling for what it was.”

Aeducan looked sharply up at her husband. “Thom, what—”

“I don’t know how to describe it,” he continued, staring intently at Roslyn’s left hand. “I just—can you… _try_ it again? Maybe I was just going mad, but I could have sword I heard something…else.”

Roslyn stared at the old man. “You want me to open a rift? In the middle of this hall? You do realize that I’m supposed to be closing them, right?” She caught Dorian’s grin at Cassandra’s clenched expression, and despite herself, she had to fight her own smile. _The more things change…_

“Not a rift,” Rainier said, “just…do what you did earlier.”

She sighed. “Fine, but no screaming please.” 

Before anyone could object, she activated her mark. She didn’t open another rift, not like she had on the field before the fortress. For one, she was too tired to do more than reach for a tendril of Fade energy. For another, she didn’t want to draw much attention to herself from anything that might be waiting on the other side. 

Not after whatever she’d felt down in the cavern below. 

Ripples of energy wafted out from her hand, casting green shadows on the crumbling stone and fallen beams. The dripping water took on a brighter sheen as the mark pulsed once, twice. She felt the energy tease her, trail lightly up over her skin and against her aura, but she held it back, letting it out just enough to create the ghost of a barrier around her in a dome. 

The wardens went stiff with shock, all of them staring unfocused at the ground. 

“Maker’s mercy,” Stroud whispered. 

Roslyn closed her fist, pulling together the threads of Fade energy and sealing the small rift. She fought the immediate sense of claustrophobia, of discomfort, and breathed slowly until she felt normal again.

Everyone was silent for a moment. 

“I assume it worked?” she asked, watching the wardens collect themselves. 

“I could hear it,” Stroud murmured, voice rough. “The Calling—like it was layered over itself. The false note became clear at once, and I…” He shook his head, meeting Roslyn’s gaze. “I don’t know how—”

“The false Calling must be coming from the Fade,” she finished for him. “I’d wondered how Coryphea could affect so many wardens at once over such a vast distance, when she could only control a few dozen from her prison.” She looked to Varric. “She just had the Carta, right?”

“And the wardens who got too close,” Carter finished, scowling. “Fuck, that’s unnerving.”

She ignored his searching look. “She’ll be working with something in the Fade, then. Something powerful, if it can affect so many at once. Hold on,” she turned to Aeducan, seeing the same tension in her grey eyes, “are you also experiencing this false Calling?”

“I am.”

“How, though?” She hesitated, realizing the subject might be a bit personal. “I thought dwarves didn’t dream. You have no connection to the Fade.”

Aeducan stiffened, her expression growing remote and lethally calm. “We sacrifice many things when we become Grey Wardens, Inquisitor. Dwarves more than others.”

Roslyn forced herself not to ask for more details. Whatever the nature of her sacrifice, whatever one did to become a Grey Warden, she had a feeling that she didn’t want to know. She turned to the twin dwarves, who were watching the conversation in fascination. “Do you have any idea what this Old One might be?”

Qestyra shrugged, the loops of her black braids shifting as they brushed her shoulders. “The memories are vague on this. A sleeper, caged. Locked deep within the Stone to ensure it would never get out. It could be one of a number of beings. Or perhaps an especially large nug.”

Roslyn’s mouth twitched. At least the dwarf had a sense of humor.

Dorian’s expression went distant. “Well, my first thought would be a demon, to layer such a curse over so many. A very powerful demon. Though I struggle to think how none of us have sensed it if it’s working through the Fade.”

“Demons trapped under the earth?” Roslyn asked with a frown. “Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

He tilted his head in consideration, opening his lips only to hesitate. His eyes narrowed, and he exhaled sharply.

“What?”

Dorian met her gaze with a sudden severity. “The Old Gods of Tevinter were buried in tombs deep within the earth. Or so the legends say.”

Roslyn stared at him. “You’re not seriously suggesting—”

“That Clarel is trying to awaken an Old God?” He smiled wryly. “Of course not. That would not only be heretical to the point of hilarity, but mad beyond reason. And if I had not spent the last year watching you casually destroy reason at every turn, I would walk out of this keep and not trouble myself with any more thought of such insanity.” He grimaced. “However, as we are all now living in a world where ancient magisters walk the earth and women can tear through the Veil with one flick of their finger, I have to admit that if one were to want to call upon an ancient demon with the intent of stopping the Blights for good, one might theorize than an archdemon of one’s own might be beneficial in controlling the darkspawn.”

The dripping sounds of the Fallow Mire drifted through the ruined hall, casting an eerie, creeping quality to the sudden silence. 

An Old God of Tevinter. 

Her heart beat fast as she heard, again, that ringing, oppressive silence.

Coryphea had said she wanted to remake this world in the Imperium’s image. What better way to do that than to raise a former master and bend them to her will? She had already attacked the earthly representative of the Maker. It wouldn’t be such a stretch to want to dominate one of her own gods as well.

Rylen coughed uncomfortably. “I think that’s where I’ll leave you all. This is a bit above my head.”

She caught his pointed gaze, shoving down her fear to think rationally. They needed reinforcements. Even if the Wardens were doing something else, something less _insane_ , she couldn’t fight them alone. “We need to send word to the rest of the council. King Alistair as well.”

“Orders to march, your worship?”

A prickling sense of horror crawled over her spine at the idea that he was expecting her to answer. That he was looking at her without jest, but utter, ready sincerity. She could ask for her soldiers to join her. For every wide-eyed recruit and hopeful fighter she’d spoken with over the past six months, given encouragement, broken bread and learned their names, to leave Skyhold or the Grand Forest Villa and march south to what might be the makings of another, final, Blight. 

Heart beating in her throat, she nodded. 

“You can’t _attack_ the Wardens,” Carver said incredulously. 

She ignored him, turning to Stroud. “How many of you have gathered in the Wilds?”

Stroud’s jaw clenched, doubt flickering in his eyes. 

“Two thousand, give or take,” Rainier muttered. 

Stroud gave him a sharp look, but Aeducan was watching Roslyn. Her expression was unreadable. 

“Is that a guess?”

“No, Inquisitor,” Stroud sighed, “to my knowledge, every warden in Orlais has joined her, along with those from Ferelden. Accounting for some who came down from the Free Marches, I would put the wardens with her at close to two thousand souls.”

Roslyn frowned. “So few?”

“There were only two to stop the last Blight,” Aeducan murmured. “Before Warden Commander Cousland abandoned us three years ago, we had about four hundred recruits. Numbers have been steadily rising in Ferelden since the last Blight, but it’s…difficult to grow, due to the nature of our recruitment.”

“They will have mages with them,” Stroud added, almost reluctantly. “And every one of us is well trained, the equal of two or three normal soldiers.”

Roslyn forced herself not to think about what she was doing—declaring war on the Grey Wardens, only ten years after they’d saved the world—and nodded. “How long do we have?”

“Not long,” Aeducan murmured. “If these two are to be believed,” she threw a dark look at the twin dwarves, “the tremors are growing more frequent, and more violent. Whatever Bard and Clarel are trying to do, they’re getting closer.”

Rylen gave Harding one last gentle pat on the back, before he left the hall. Roslyn noticed the lingering fondness in Harding’s eyes as she watched him go.

“ _Why_ are you helping her?” Carver asked in a rough, pained voice. 

“See reason, Carver,” Stroud implored. “The Wardens have been tricked into doing the unthinkable. We cannot allow another archdemon to rise. If the Inquisition can stop this, we must help.”

“Clarel is not an evil woman,” Rainier said urgently. “She can be reasoned with.” He looked to Roslyn, brow furrowed, pleading. “My lady, please. Do what you just did to her. Show her the false Calling for what it is. She’ll stand down. She has to.”

“Would _she_ stand down, though?” Carver asked, sneering at Roslyn. “Or are you just looking for somewhere to point your cursed—”

A voice boomed over the fortress, cutting Carver short. “ _Where’s that little bastard? CARVER! I’m going to KILL you!”_

Roslyn didn’t drop Carver’s gaze as she shoved down on her surge of anger. “I’d go find your brother before you say something you regret, Warden Hawke.”

Varric, who had been watching them both with fear in his eyes, finally spoke up. “Come on, kid. Trust me when I say you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

Carver didn’t move for a moment, before Stroud pressed a hand to his shoulder. “We’ve done all we can, Carver,” the old man murmured. 

The bright, piercing blue eyes dimmed as he shook his head. The tension in his body relaxed, but he held Roslyn’s gaze long enough to mutter, “Should’ve known. You’re all the same.”

Roslyn watched him walk out with Varric, the latter sending her an apologetic glance before they left. 

Who had he been comparing her to?

“Don’t judge him too harshly, Inquisitor,” Stroud said tiredly, his expression faltering as he shook his head. “Life has not been kind to the boy, and the last few months especially brutal.”

Roslyn held her tongue even as she wanted to retort that she hadn’t exactly been vacationing either. 

Carver’s words rang in her mind, embedding themselves like knives into her psyche. _All the same. You’re all the same._

It shouldn’t matter what one angry warden thought of her, but she could help but feel as if he were right. 

“You say Clarel can be reasoned with,” she said to Rainier, forcing herself back to the issue at hand. “If I were to get close enough, I might be able to disrupt the Calling.”

“Could you get close enough, though?” Cassandra asked darkly. “You would still have to fight through thousands of wardens to reach her. She will be guarded. And if Bard is her ally, who knows what tricks he might employ to stop you.”

“I don’t think it will as hard as all that,” Rainier said at once. “There’s more who don’t agree with what Clarel’s doing. You can convince them, I’m sure of it.”

“And if you’re wrong?” Roslyn asked.

He said nothing, but the answer hung in his conflicted gaze, in the rigid posture of Aeducan at his side, in the tired acceptance of Stroud’s slumped shoulders. 

“I’ll try,” she said at last. “But I already have one ancient magister to contend with. I can’t add an Old God to my list of enemies as well.”

Another silence. 

“That is all we can ask, your worship,” Stroud said with a bowed head. 

Roslyn tried not to indulge her pity for these people. They were warriors who had chosen the wrong side. She could understand making hard choices, but this…

This seemed like madness. 

But Dorian was right. With all she’d seen, all she’d done over the past year and a half, who was she to judge? Who had she ever been to judge those who took extreme measures? She had killed a tower full of templars to save a handful of children. She had abandoned her fellow mages to make an alliance with templars. She had condemned an entire world to death to return to her own timeline. 

She had bound herself to a spirit, to a source of unfathomable power, to close the Breach. 

Every choice had been justified. Every choice had, at the time, seemed like the only path. 

If it meant saving the world, saving her people, what wouldn’t she do?

Perhaps she saw the reasoning, the logic. Awaken an Old God, create an archdemon beholden to the Grey Wardens to destroy the darkspawn for good. If Coryphea were not involved, pulling their strings, it would make a twisted kind of sense. The risk was enormous, yes, but if it stopped the Blights, stopped uncountable numbers of people from dying in the future, was that not a risk worth taking?

Would she choose otherwise?

“Where is this door?” she asked when she realized she’d been silent for too long. “Where are they massing?”

“I don’t know about this… _door_ ,” Aeducan said slowly, “but we think they gathered at Ostagar before heading south. An old fortress in the heart of the Korcari Wilds, where the horde broke through in the last Blight. The lack of signs in the surrounding area only leads me to believe that they’re using the Deep Roads to travel.”

The Deep Roads. 

A thought, nearly forgotten, pierced the fog of her mind. “Do you know of any paths under the Frostback Mountains?”

Aeducan shrugged. “It’s possible. The ancient thaigs were scattered across the length of Thedas before they fell.”

Certainty slammed into the pit of her stomach. “She used the Deep Roads,” Roslyn murmured.

Cassandra frowned. “What?”

“To attack Haven. To surprise us.” She met Cassandra’s eyes with a wave of sickening anger. “That’s why the king couldn’t track the Venatori from Redcliffe. They took paths under the mountains.”

“Andraste preserve us,” Cassandra murmured.

“Where was this Haven?” the dwarf with the shaved head, Boreya, asked sharply. 

“North of Redcliffe, west of Lake Calenhad.” Roslyn watched her reaction. The twins exchanged unreadable glances. “Would you know something of this?”

“We know many things, Lady of the Sundered Veil,” the other dwarf, Qestyra, mused. “But if this ancient magister is using the Deep Roads of the Frostbacks, it would explain some things which had hitherto been inexplicable.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know where this Door of Delgatan is, would you?”

“Of course not,” she mused, smiling absently. “Like my cousin has told you, they were lost eons ago, before the first memories took shape in the early minds of my ancestors.”

“But you came here trying to determine the source of the tremors? Why?”

“Because I believe that Bard _thinks_ he has found such a door. He stole secrets from more than just your sundered mages, Lady.” Her eyes went suddenly sharp, her features hardening into a mirror image of her sister’s. “I would see him ripped limb from limb for thinking to cross my people.”

“You know him?”

“I do.”

Roslyn looked to Rhaella, who was nodding in agreement. 

“The sorcerer has walked many places forbidden to him,” the augur said, “in guises strange and secret. When last we met, his eyes were fixed on a prize I had to wrest from his clutches, a…child he thought to steal. He only cares for knowledge, secrets. His new master is cunning indeed, if she has given him such power. He must be stopped, whatever fate holds for the Grey Wardens.”

“Do you have any idea of where Bard _thinks_ these doors are, then?” Roslyn asked, unsettled by the focus in Qestyra’s eyes. “The Inquisition would pay handsomely for any aid you could provide.”

The dwarf laughed, a high, broken giggle that raised the hairs on the back of Roslyn’s neck. “Oh, we don’t need your money, Lady.”

Her sister, Boreya, nodded, unfolding her arms to run her thumb over one of the axes hanging at her waist. “We will help your Inquisition. You could not trespass in the halls of our ancestors without our aid, in any case. To do so would be to invite ruin.”

“Boreya will leave to gather more fighters. You will need all the help you can get, especially if Bard’s machinations have disturbed the old guardians,” Qestyra said, her voice returning to its high, airy nonchalance. “I shall stay and guide your people south.”

Roslyn fought the urge to ask for clarification on what the fuck the dwarf was talking about, and glanced at Harding, who seemed to be sizing up the twin dwarves with not a small amount of incredulity. “What do you think?”

She took a deep, pained breath. “Sure. We could use a guide who knows the swamps as well, though.” She grimaced, glancing between the twins. “Unless you’re planning on taking us through the Deep Roads.”

Qestyra gave Harding a withering glance. “Of course not. You would get lost in any case. The Deep Roads do not suffer the ignorant to pass.”

Roslyn’s brow raised. “All right. Hall can get us to Ostagar, but we might need to reach out to more of the Chasind. An army marching through their land might put them in the mind that we’re invading.”

“I know someone who knows the Wilds, Herald,” Rhaella said, tension creeping into her expression. Her single black eye seemed to grow darker. “Who knows this land better than anyone else. If I call, she…might answer. She might also be able to shed light on this…entity behind the doors.”

“Does this person have a name,” Roslyn said when the augur went silent, “or is it supposed to be a surprise?”

Rhaella frowned, as if she were already regretting her offer. “She is…a difficult woman to predict. She might wish to claim anonymity. I will not reveal her, not without her permission.” The augur must have sensed her unwillingness, because she tilted her head in a challenge. “If I cannot bring her, it will not matter. If I can, she will give you the answers you need. No more can I promise.”

Dorian smiled thinly. “When you put it that way, it does seem as if we’ve found ourselves in a bit of a sticky situation.”

“Contact her,” Roslyn said, frowning. “But we’re leaving in two days. I won’t risk any more time.”

She did not want to remain in Hargrave Keep any longer than necessary. If there was an entrance to the Deep Roads under their feet, she would not wait until Bard poked his head out again.

Rhaella nodded, stepping from the two dwarves and making for the hall entrance. “I know of the fortress Qestyra speaks, and shall meet you there, Herald. I hope the gods will guide me back to you before you march.”

Dorian watched her go with a forced smile. “That woman is entirely unsettling.”

Roslyn ignored him, turning to the remaining wardens. “Any information you can give me about what kind of force we’ll be fighting would help.” She paused, a thread of doubt entering her mind. “I hope you’re right about Clarel.”

“So do I, my lady,” Rainier muttered. He left with Stroud, both of their heads bowed.

Aeducan waited, meeting Roslyn’s gaze squarely. She said nothing, but nodded, as if approving of what she found. 

“I suppose we should start drawing up maps,” Harding said after a moment of awkward silence. She waved her arms, forcing a smile to her face. “Gotta be something to write with in this busted keep.”

She gave Roslyn a thumbs up when the other dwarves started out of the hall, her smile growing pained as she followed. 

Dorian and Cassandra stood beside her, as if they were waiting for her to speak. When she didn’t, Cassandra muttered, “I had not thought the Wardens capable of such madness.”

“Really?” Dorian mused. “I thought that was their modus operandi. In war, insanity, in peace, hysteria, in—”

“Before we leave, I’d like you to look at Bard’s room,” Roslyn said, turning from the hearthfire and walking back into the larger fortress. “You might be able to spot something I missed.”

She caught the hint of his and Cassandra’s voices as she left, murmuring together. No doubt wondering what was wrong with her. 

She had to pull herself together soon, or the Inquisition would be following a wreck into war. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Obviously I threw a bunch of stuff at you guys in this chapter. I'm changing a lot of the canon for the Wardens, setting stuff up for future books. If anything is confusing, feel free to ask for clarification, but I wouldn't get too hung up on canon stuff. At this point I feel like you guys understand that, but I wanted to be extra clear that I'm playing fast and loose with everything and that I'm more concerned with the internal cohesion of this fic than how it relates to canon. 
> 
> Love you guys <3


	42. Walls That I've Raised

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Love Alive" by Aaron Krause](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9TQOq90GfO0&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&t=0s&index=44)

Hands clenched as she walked from the great hall, Roslyn tried to breathe through her growing unease. Every moment she spent in this rotting keep, every moment she walked over thedamp, mist-choked ground, knowing that pit of yawning darkness sat beneath her, her anxiety grew worse. As if that silence was rising up from the very dirt to swallow her whole. 

A distant peel of thunder echoed across the sky. She looked up as she walked out into the lower courtyard, and froze.

Four yellow-green eyes peered down at her. Black shapes peeled from the dark mass of bruised purple cloud atop the ramparts. Wings stretched wide, flapping slightly—moving just enough to catch her gaze. 

Ravens. Two of them. Shifting their feathers and tilting their heads at her. Watching her with an intelligence that made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. 

“—do with the Avvar, my lady?”

Roslyn jerked around, aura snapping into place as her heart leapt into her throat. 

Only to see one of her scouts standing a respectful distance away, looking at her expectantly. 

“What?” she forced out, swallowing back her spike of fear. 

The scout blinked nervously before she said, slowly, “The Avvar, milady. There’s a good two dozen who want to join us. The others have been sent on their way with supplies. I—was wondering what you wanted done with them that stayed?”

“Oh, I—,” she looked back to the ramparts, but the ravens were gone, “send them to Rylen. Lieutenant Rylen. He’ll know where to put them.”

The scout bobbed her head and shuffled aside. “Thank you, your worship.”

Roslyn watched her go, forcing herself not to look again. It had been a long day. Perhaps she was just imagining things. Remembering Therinfal Redoubt, and the aftermath of a blood- and rain-soaked keep, where she’d been forced to make another hard choice. 

Ravens were not so uncommon in the Wilds. Nor was she unfamiliar with them, after meeting with Leliana every night in her roost where she practically bred the birds. A trick of the light, maybe, the warped Veil changing the local fauna in ways that made them look spectral and wrong. Everything in this swamp was twisted. Why not the birds as well?

Perhaps it _was_ real, but she was simply letting her fear getting the better of her. 

She clenched her jaw, forced herself to remember who she was, and how many eyes were no doubt watching her stand in the center of the courtyard staring at the sky. The Inquisitor shouldn’t be seen falling to pieces in plain sight. _Pull it together._ She took a few, purposeful steps forward, casting her gaze over the keep as if she were inspecting it for flaws, only to find Solas watching her from the shadow of a side door. 

Hesitation gripped her for a moment, tensing as she fought the innate urge to walk away, to bury her fear down deep inside where it couldn’t hurt her, where she could ignore it—but it was stupid to indulge. She wanted to find her own perch on the ramparts so she might breathe somewhat fresh air out of sight of everyone else, but he was a close alternative. 

Strange, how quickly that had changed.

“How’s Cole?” she asked as she walked over to him, trying to sound casual. Knowing that he missed nothing, and no doubt had watched her jump near out of her skin, she fixed a determinedly pleasant expression on her face. “I haven’t seen him since… You know.”

“Better now. He has left to collect himself and to help the newly released scouts.” He studied her, taking in the slight tremor in her hands. “Whatever you encountered under the keep frightened him considerably.”

She nodded instead of answering his unspoken question, looking over his shoulder into the room behind him. It was full of open crates, some of them empty, some stuffed with straw. “Find anything useful?”

“Interestingly, a Grey Warden tome detailing past commanders through the Towers Age, left here what must have been nearly a century before the Avvar claimed this fortress.”

She snorted. “Sometimes I wonder if the Maker is just a sick fuck who likes His irony.”

“It would explain certain erroneous sections of the Chant.”

“And what would you know about the Chant?” 

“Practically nothing, but there are many Chantry sisters in the Inquisition who insist on reciting them whenever in my presence. I believe I’ve become a target of conversion to some.”

She glanced up, startled, only to see the humor pulling at the edges of his eyes. “Come and get me next time. I have a feeling that would be fun to watch.”

“I’m not sure if they’re more concerned about my apostasy or my race.”

“Probably both,” she murmured.

Understanding flicked through his eyes, softening his expression. He shifted closer to her, and for a moment she wondered if he might embrace her in full view of anyone who might be passing through the courtyard. Instead, he murmured, “You’re hurt.”

She frowned, trying to work out her feelings as to whether or not she cared if anyone saw them. “No, I’m not.”

His brow arched as he nodded to her shoulder. 

Sure enough, there was a gash in her armor on her left shoulder. The sight was disconcerting, as it looked rather serious, blood caked into the surrounding leather where her skin had been torn from the thane’s ragged axe. Even as she stared, she felt nothing more than a small discomfort, and only because she was focusing on it. Slowly, she became aware of the wolf’s magic, layered over her skin. It was…shielding her, holding the pain back from her. Just as it had after Haven.

_Have you been doing that all afternoon?_ she asked, seeing its hazy outline in her mind. 

It shifted slightly, sending her a distant thread of confirmation. 

Guilt surfaced in her chest. After…whatever she’d witnessed under the keep, she’d kept herself apart from it, not even checked in to see how it was faring after the trek across the field of dead. 

_Thank you_ , she thought, trying to coax it nearer. It sent her a thread of warmth, brief, but potent, and faded again into the back of her mind. 

She met Solas’s intent gaze. “I—I didn’t realize it was so bad. The wolf,” she added lamely.

His brow furrowed. “Are you…speaking to it?”

She nodded. 

Tension flickered in his eyes, but he mastered it just as quickly. “I see. Your wound looks infected. It should be dealt with soon before it can fester.”

“I suppose I should find a healer then.”

The hint of a smile pulled at one side of his mouth. “That would be wise. Lucky for you, I happen to know one quite familiar with you and your penchant for injuring yourself.”

She hid her own smile as she stepped around him into the store room, leaning against one of the open crates and easing out of her gambeson and outer armor. As soon as the leather brushed her torn skin, hot pain flared through her shoulder. She nearly put her fist through one of the crates. “ _Fuck_ ,” she gasped as Solas joined her. “All right. Maker’s balls, now I can feel it.”

He chuckled, taking her armor and setting it aside on a stack of crates. She noticed that he didn’t close the door to the store room, but he did push it slightly shut. No one would see them if they passed, unless they were actively looking. 

Out of the eyesight of everyone else in the keep, she felt a small piece of her relax. 

Lights winked into existence over Solas’s head. Small and blue, soft as they illuminated the small room. 

Her overshirt was stained with blood. It looked like black ink in the dim light, smelling of rust and sweat and the cloying moisture of the swamp. She pulled it over her head and threw it onto the pile with the rest of her armor, wincing. 

The size of the room came into full measure then, and she fought the urge to push the door the rest of the way closed. It had only been a day since he had returned, since he had pulled her into a kiss that had been months coming. Nothing had changed, not really, but she couldn’t help but notice that the place where she usually held her patience, her anxiety, her tension at never having an answer from him, was gone. 

Solas seemed to keeping his gaze fixed to her face.

“What’s with the sudden modesty?” she murmured, nerves dancing in her stomach.

He smirked, seemingly unaffected. “Perhaps I don’t find the sight of you covered in blood appealing.”

Her smile was a slow building thing, fueled by the way his eyes dipped lower and lingered on her stomach. “Liar.”

To her satisfaction, it seemed to take him a great amount of effort to turn his attention back to her shoulder. He stepped closer as his aura rose, but any heat it might have kindled in hers was spoiled by the immediate frisson of pain as her shoulder began to writhe and burn in his examination. 

“Poison,” Solas murmured, almost surprised. His brow furrowed as he looked her over again, appreciation morphing into concern. “You truly didn’t feel this?”

She shook her head. “I think the wolf was shielding me from the effects.”

His eyes went distant as he studied the wound. “I believe you’re correct. I can feel its presence, slowly combatting the infection and poison in your blood.” He exhaled in a soft sigh of sudden realization. “This would explain your accelerated healing after Haven. I had wondered… You showed faster than normal regeneration, even for a mage of your power. I theorized the anchor might have something to do with it, but in my studies, I’d never seen any concrete proof that such magic was linked.”

She clenched her jaw as his aura rose and he began to work on her wound, listening to him talk, letting the sound of his voice distract her from the chaos in her mind. The sensation woke a conflicting swirl of emotions in her core, as the pain lessened and she felt _him_ wash over her. He leaned close, smelling of dirt and elfroot, and something sharp and pleasant she couldn’t quite place. She clenched her hands to keep from reaching for him. 

It was still new, this closeness, and part of her was still worried she might scare him off. 

“I’ll need to clean and redress this tomorrow to be sure the infection has not taken hold,” he murmured, his breath warming the side of her neck as he finished wrapping her injury with a few strips of linen. 

He produced a bottle of blueish green liquid from his belt that smelled tangy and fresh when he pulled out the stopper. “A regeneration tonic,” he said in response to her raised brow. “Though it might be unnecessary, I’d rest easier knowing we were overcautious.”

“Well you know me. I’m always cautious.” Her fingers brushed his as she took the vial and downed its contents. It tasted like grass and tepid water, with a tang of fresh acid following after. “Interesting,” she muttered, running her tongue over the roof of her mouth to rid herself of the strange taste. Cool energy washed down her throat, sparking in her blood as if she’d just swallowed a jar of benign bees.

She caught his gaze, a fond smile pulling at his lips. “Why are you smiling?”

Instead of answering, he tilted his head, running his eyes down her face, not even bothering to hide his interest anymore, which was rather different than the clinical gaze he should have had while tending to a patient. “You have a bruise forming on your chin.”

Heat stirred at the base of her spine, answering the look in his eyes. “The thane caught me off guard. Nearly knocked my teeth out.”

“You were impressive today,” he murmured, shifting closer. “Not only do you seem to be mastering the anchor with startling speed, you show a level of improvement with the sword that should, in anyone else, be impossible. The _Dirth’ena Enasalin_ suits you.”

Embarrassment warred with the small amount of pride she felt at the compliment, only to to fracture as she remembered the feeling of suffocation when Bard’s power had nearly incapacitated her. 

She looked down, eyeing the bone pendant draped around his neck. “It’s not enough.”

Gentle fingers brushed her neck, tipping her chin back up as a wave of healing magic slid over her skin. He lingered there, tracing the edge of her jaw.

Her eyes closed as she tried to let the feel of him drown out the fears shrieking in her mind. “I don’t know if you saw,” she whispered, throat tight, “but Bard crippled me after the thane finally died. The magic—it was the same magic Coryphea used on me in Haven. It’s—,” her voice broke, “I must have forgotten, or I just made myself forget…”

Solas’s hand moved behind her head, his arm circling around to pull her into his embrace, slowly, giving her time to pull back, to push him away. 

Instead she pressed her face into his chest, wrapped her arms around his waist, held him as she started to tremble. A sob caught in her throat as the tension she’d been holding since she stumbled into that yawning black cavern rising up and breaking the last bonds of her control. 

She didn’t cry. She didn’t let herself. But she did let him hold her, clinging to him as the fear of that ringing, horrible silence finally claimed her. She hung in that fear as long as she dared, recognizing it, naming it, and when she could, _remaking_ it. As the last of her shaking faded, and the tension ebbed back into a calm, lapping tide, she set it aside. 

It was hers now, and she would not break when she met it again. 

“Do you wish to speak of it?” Solas murmured into her hair. 

Roslyn unclenched her jaw, relaxed the grip on his waist as she sat back. One tear escaped down her cheek when she opened her eyes. “No.”

Hesitantly, he wiped the tear from her cheek, swiping the pad of his thumb gently over her skin. Something sparked in his eyes, catching the blue glow of his dancing lights. He leaned down, murmured, “Then we shall not speak of it.”

He kissed her, and all thoughts of silence and impenetrable darkness vanished. There was only him, the overwhelming feel of him coaxing her open, catching at the edges of her aura and _pulling_. The press of his hands on her cheek and spine, the bend as she urged him closer. 

She forgot about the fortress of Avvar, the stinking mire, the room of maddening eyes, and she simply—was.

She slipped a hand under the edge of his tunic, felt for the first time the lean, corded plane of his back as he breathed a soft sigh into her mouth. She drank the sound in. Heat sparked in her stomach. Her heart raced as he spread his fingers over her uninjured shoulder, gently, delicately, as if he didn’t want to hurt her further. His hand ran over the fabric of her breast band, only for his thumb to run under it.

She smiled around his lips, letting her aura expand to tug on his, relishing his surprised moan. Always surprised by the intensity of the sparking connection between them, she felt like another sense had been awakened. 

He pressed closer, the hem of his rucked up tunic brushing her bare stomach every time she breathed. The edge of the crate she was leaning against dug into the small of her back, but she didn’t care. Her mind was fixed on the empty space between them. On the distance. Too much distance. His fingers threaded into the mess of her knotted hair, anchored her to him as he slipped his tongue between her lips, brushed his nails against the tip of her ear—

Against the scars behind her ear.

Panic lanced up to replace the desire unfurling in her gut. It shattered into her mind. Burned cold over her skin. Helena’s voice cracked like a whip.

_Rabbit, Rabbit, RABBIT—_

Force erupted from her chest, slammed the body looming over hers back into the stone wall. Magic surged up her throat, cutting, shredding, searching for the source of the fear tearing into the back of her mind. She was stuck in a small room. Crates at her back, at her sides. Damp. Cold. In the cellars under the Emerald Cove. How had Helena found her here? She never came down to the servants’ quarters. Roslyn was supposed to be safe here—

A barrier winked into focus around the figure—around _Solas_. 

The door to the store room shut with a loud crack. A few of the crates nearest her shattered as the force magic dispersed. She staggered back into the wall as she pulled in her aura. The room went still, dark. She could just make out the outline of his barrier, almost invisible, but pulsing with a slight, silvery sheen. 

A single blue light slowly came to drift over Solas’s head. His brow was furrowed, eyes wide with concern—confusion, not fear. 

Her mouth opened, but the words would not come. She could not explain, not with her ears burning and the memory of Helena’s shriek resounding in her mind. 

Shame, sick and roiling, rose up her throat. Her eyes pricked with tears. “I’m sorry,” she managed, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m—sorry, Solas, I’m…I’m _so_ —”

“Stop, Roslyn,” he murmured, voice rough as he straightened. “Don’t apologize. There is nothing…” He moved forward when he saw her chest heaving, her lips trembling as she struggled to breathe. “Look at me.” His voice grew slow, calm. “You have nothing to fear here. You are safe.”

She blinked furiously against tears still falling down her cheeks. _Why_ was she reacting like this? There was no _fucking_ reason…

“I’m all right,” she managed, wiping her face and frowning at the ground. She couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t look him in the eye after attacking him and explain that she was going to pieces over…over something so…

After everything, _this_ was what made her unravel? Ten _fucking_ years and she still couldn’t have her ears touched without…without remembering…

“It is only natural that you might struggle with the memory Bard—”

“It’s not—” She winced, clenching her jaw and fighting the urge to shout, to grind her teeth, to do anything except indulge in this child’s fear. “It’s stupid. I’m fine. Sorry.”

He said nothing, allowing a few more lights to dance over their heads. The shifting blue glow made the room seem small, cramped. He stood apart from her, close enough to touch, but with his arms down, hands held back.

She fought the urge to push out of the room, to leave him behind and ignore the shame making her cheeks burn. Folding her arms over her chest, she held herself tight, pressing in so as not to lose herself entirely.

“You—you touched my ear,” she finally murmured, when the immediate panic had faded and her heart had slowed its frantic pace. 

A moment of silence. She heard him release a slow, measured breath. “I see.” He shifted, just a bit closer. She wondered if she was imagining the relief in his voice. Had he thought she was reacting to him? “I did not realize they were so sensitive.”

“No, not like that.” She chewed on her bottom lip, hating how feeble she felt. Looking aside as she furiously blinked more tears from her eyes, she muttered, “I don’t—people don’t…touch them. The scars.” The words grated as she spoke. She had to drag out each and every one as they fought to remain lodged in her throat. “When I’ve been with…people in the past, they don’t… It’s usually just sex, not—” She waved at him, as if that explained anything. “It never goes further than rutting in a closet. Or a barn, once.”

He took another step toward her, as if testing the distance between them. “I think we’ve found ourselves in less of a closet than a storage room. Though I would be willing to ignore the discrepancy if you need the fantasy.”

She looked up at him in surprise, and barked out a laugh. “I really don’t. One of the only good things about being Inquisitor is that I don’t have to sleep over horse shit anymore. It has a tendency to kill the mood.” 

There was something pained about his smile, something ancient in the way he looked at her with sad, knowing eyes.

“I’m all right,” she said, voice growing stronger, surer. The shame was still there, turning her stomach, and any ideas of rutting or otherwise, rank. But if it had to be someone who saw her act the fool, she’d rather it was him. “Truly. You just—startled me. No one’s ever touched me like that before.” She grimaced. _Maker, that’s pathetic._

Solas took another step toward her and brushed one long finger over her crossed arms. “Your heritage was turned into a punishment. There is no shame in reacting out of self-preservation.”

She leaned into his touch, though she kept her aura close. It was too volatile, the riot of emotions pouring through her too wild to allow it what it wanted—to return to that heady, wonderful connection. 

“Heritage,” she murmured, straightening and stepping into his embrace again. She was too stiff, and he was careful not to hold her too close, but it was enough to banish the last shred of her shame. A father who had hidden her away in a cottage far from his real family. A mother who had never even bothered to meet her. “Some heritage.”

Solas tensed, but before she could lean back to see what was wrong, a loud flurry of shouts broke through their quiet embrace. 

Sera’s shrieking laugh cut across the fortress, followed by what might have been Amund’s howl. 

Roslyn closed her eyes. “I should have left her in Val Royeaux.”

Solas chuckled, the vibration moving through his shoulders and chest. For a moment, she thought about ignoring whatever was going on outside this small, moldy room. For a moment, she wondered what it would be like to stay in Solas’s arms. How safe it might feel.

The thought jarred somewhat, as if some part of her still questioned whether this was real. 

He had left before. He might leave again one day. 

_But not today._

“Thank you,” she murmured, pulling back to look into his eyes. “One of these days you’re not going to be around when I need comforting, and I’ll have to find someone else to witness my crazy.”

She couldn’t help the note of truth ringing in the jest. His eyes darkened, but he didn’t retreat. He didn’t step away. He held her gaze, and something raw shone in his expression. “I would not have it so, were I to choose for myself.”

She smiled despite his sincerity, toying with the leather strap of his necklace. “Only you could be so sweet and so solemn at the same time.” Her fingers splayed over his chest, over his heart. “I’m sorry for slamming you into a wall.”

“You should not be.” His hand trailed down her arm, settled on the bare skin above her hip. He watched his fingers, as if tracing the lines of her body with his gaze as well as his touch. “Feel free to slam me against any wall you wish.” 

Her brow arched. “I’ll take that into consideration.”

“It also conjures fond memories of how we met.” His smile crooked sideways. “I am not opposed to being reminded of your entrance into my life, often, and in a more…controlled setting.”

She hummed a laugh, knowing he was trying to put her at ease. _Sweet, sweet man_. She reached up to pull his chin down to kiss him. Softly, chastely, brushing their lips together, lingering long enough to feel the ghost of him over her skin. “Did I mention how glad I am that you’re here?”

She felt him smile, felt his chest fill with air. “You might have,” he murmured. “Once or twice. In passing.”

“I’ll have to see about hammering my point home then.”

He laughed, pressed his lips to her forehead. “Careful what you tease, _vhenan_. I’m going to start getting ideas.”

Some part of her caught on the word. She could have sworn she’d heard it before. Perhaps it was some elven endearment? More likely it was something meant to tease. She was about to ask, wondering if the elves had a term for ‘ass’, when a loud knock sounded on the door. 

“Right, I’ve surmised that you two are doing something foul in there from all the smashing I heard earlier, but I really must insist that you come out here at once.” Dorian’s voice was muffled, but clear, while Cassandra’s half-hearted shushing was less so. “Amund seems to have challenged Sera to a duel, and the fool girl has accepted. I’m not sure what she did to provoke him, but no one seems to be able to convince him to stand down. If you’re not here to step in soon, I’m afraid we might be down one giant man.”

“Be right out,” Roslyn called. “Just going over some…items.”

“I _really_ don’t want to know!” Dorian called, voice strained.

Solas helped her don her armor again, the sheer filth of them become apparent after sitting out in the cold, damp storage room. 

“I don’t suppose any of your scandalous ideas would include a bath?” she mused, shifting the broken pieces of wood into the corners, trying to make it look like a druffalo hadn’t rampaged through the small room. She glanced up to see him smirking in satisfaction, hand lingering on the door. “Enough of that,” she warned, “or other people might actually think you’re pleasant.”

“That would be perilous indeed.” His expression softened. “Do you want a moment alone?”

She nodded, and Solas left her to collect herself. 

But without him, everything else seemed to swarm back into her mind. Her ears burned and her chest felt tight, as if she still couldn’t get enough air. The sounds of the fortress only seemed to amplify the horrible, ringing silence she still somehow felt.

Roslyn stared at the door, focusing on the impact of her hard, beating heart, and could not help but see a cavern devoid of light in her mind’s eye. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kisses with panic attacks, I mean, what else did you guys expect from me. 
> 
> Next chapter starts in on the end game! I still can't believe we're actually getting close to the end. I've been writing this fic since the beginning of 2016. Hope it was worth the wait <3


	43. The Writing on the Wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Premonitions" by Vaults](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mO2IepcSZZc&index=45&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&t=0s)

Ostagar was a ruin alive with ghosts. 

Every step Roslyn took through the crumbling, empty arches, every shadow cast from the towering minarets, every flap of ragged pendants in the cold wind—it all whispered of those who had once gathered here to die. The Veil was so thin that Roslyn sometimes felt spirits pressing in on her, seeking, searching, pulling at her anchor, for an absolution that she could not give them. 

The fortress was massive, larger than Skyhold and Therinfal Redoubt combined. Leliana had told that her the catacombs beneath stretched down further than anyone had dared tread since the Ancient Tevene architects who designed this place had fled in the chaos of the First Blight. Nestled between two low mountains at the edge of the Ferelden border, Ostagar had lain dormant for hundreds of years until the last Blight had seen it filled with soldiers. The first mass casualty before the horde had swept north. 

Staring down into the lowlands to the south, watching them stretch on in a grim, grey shadow until the horizon bled into stark white, Roslyn could imagine what it must have been like in its prime. A bastion of civilization at the edge of the world. One final beacon before the southern mists consumed the land. 

It was better than the Fallow Mire, but that was where its qualities ended. She could at least see the horizon beyond the choking, purple fog which had followed them east. But there was something else here which pulled at her, something frightening. The blank space at the back of her mind had grown barbs during the slow march across the southern edge of the Hinterlands. As her responsibilities grew and the number of her soldiers swelled with reinforcements from King Alistair, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was walking toward something more than this trouble with the Wardens. Something that had glimpsed her once before, and was waiting. Something that had followed her out of that dark cavern underneath Keep Hargrave.

“Aren’t you cold?” 

Roslyn’s mouth twitched at Dorian’s audibly chattering teeth. They stood on the bridge connecting the main fortress of Ostagar to the outlying buildings. A single tower rose up behind them, its tip so high she could barely see the edge of its ramparts without drawing on the wolf’s heightened sight. The wind coming down from the surrounding mountains was sharp, yet sweet, as if the northern farmlands were beckoning her soldiers home from war. 

“Do I look cold?” she asked, giving him an appraising look. 

“No, you look imposing. It’s obnoxious.”

“You do realize your armor is missing a sleeve, right?”

He said nothing, but his frown sent his mustache twitching. 

“I’m sure Threnn could outfit you with something more suited to the climate. She brought extra armor.”

“And subject myself to the ignominy of being mistaken for a common soldier?” He scoffed, huddling further into his cloak. 

On his other side, Cassandra let out a short laugh. “No one could mistake you for anything other than who you are, Dorian.”

He gave her a winning smile. “Why, darling Cassandra, I believe you just paid me a compliment.”

“Do you? How generous.”

Roslyn grinned. “I’m so glad you two are getting along now. Come along, if you both still insist on shadowing me like a pair of puppies.” Her smile faded as she watched her third companion where she stood gazing out over the fortress with distant eyes. 

Leliana had been uncharacteristically silent since she joined Roslyn with the rest of the Inquisition soldiers one week ago. Offering little to no explanation for her presence beyond wanting to direct her scouts more closely, the spymaster had been remote and short with everyone, even Cassandra. Whatever her reasons for coming, she was keeping them close to her chest. 

Perhaps Leliana saw ghosts of a different kind in the ruins of Ostagar.

Roslyn ignored Dorian’s indignant muttering and made her way to the end of the bridge, where a figure was approaching. Blonde hair coiled atop her head, iron-tipped staff striking sure against the stone ground, Rhaella stopped when she saw them. 

“Inquisitor,” she called when Roslyn was in earshot, “you’ve brought an escort.”

Roslyn waited until they were closer before she asked, “Is that going to be a problem? Your friend realizes that she can’t stay in the shadows forever, doesn’t she?”

Rhaella eyed the other three, her face inscrutable. “So be it. Prepare yourselves for an indelicate welcome. The woman you are about to meet does not suffer small talk.”

The augur turned without another word, expecting them to follow her into the wilderness. 

“Where are we supposed to meet her?” Roslyn asked.

“Away from the swords of your soldiers, should you decide not to entertain her help.”

“And why would that be necessary?” Cassandra muttered. She’d insisted on joining Roslyn to meet this new ally, and however much she claimed that she was simply curious, Roslyn knew she was trying to keep tabs on her. 

She’d long since grown accustomed to Cassandra’s hovering, but something about it was starting to chafe, more than usual. Roslyn could defend herself. No one could dispute that now. The nagging suspicion that perhaps Cassandra disapproved of Roslyn’s leadership and the way she conducted herself in the field had started to take root, and she didn’t know how to address it.

Not in the least because she was having a hard time justifying it to herself.

Roslyn looked at Leliana again, seeing new focus in her bright blue eyes. “What are you thinking?”

Her spymaster kept her gaze forward, moving to Roslyn’s left side while Cassandra took up her right, leaving Dorian to walk behind them. “I have my suspicions about who this augur’s…friend might be. Be on your guard, Inquisitor.”

Roslyn frowned at the configuration, but let her hand drift to the hilt of her sword, brought her aura to bear as the wolf rose in readiness. 

Rhaella led them out into the wilderness, into the woods and the low-lying hills just to the south. The ground began to grow wet, the smells of peat and salt and ash drifting to Roslyn over the soft winds. They walked for over an hour on an old road overgrown with lichen and vines, all of them quiet. Beyond the walls of Ostagar, the land grew alien, as if the very ground had a consciousness, a will which did not appreciate the small lives of those who walked upon it.

A flash of white caught her eye, and Roslyn stopped so quickly Dorian nearly ran into her. 

At the edge of the road, nestled behind a dark green bush of tangled thorn and hedge, sprouted three white flowers with a blood orange center. 

“Andraste’s grace,” Leliana murmured, following her gaze. 

Roslyn looked at her, relieved that she wasn’t imagining it. “I didn’t know they grew this far south.”

“Neither did I.”

“Such a stubborn weed,” a rough, aged voice seemingly spoke from thin air. “It grows despite all attempts to kill it. And only in the places one is least likely to look.”

Roslyn’s sword was in her hand at the same time Leliana’s bow was drawn. Cassandra spun around, looking for the source of the voice. Dorian set a flash-bright barrier over them all, sending the taste of ripe berries and purple sparks over Roslyn’s tongue. 

The trees rustled with a sudden gust of wind, stirring the mists into a frenzy. The ground seemed to shake as something large paced toward them, and through the mist stepped—an old woman. 

Stark, sleek grey hair cascaded over her armored shoulders, decked in scale pauldrons with tight-fitting mail across her chest and stomach, the edge of ragged burgundy silk dragging behind her in the wind. Her skin was finely lined, but she carried herself with a pride that seemed to ripple through the air around her. She stepped across the ground like she owned it, her chin tipped up and lips sharply lined in blood red paint. 

But it was her eyes that made Roslyn’s blood run cold. 

A burning yellow amber. Not the glassy jewels of the Alamarri mage, but just as potent, just as depthless. 

Recognition spiked through Roslyn’s chest, and a strange, roaring fury pounded in her heart.

She raised her barrier at once, calling on the anchor to spark and sense out this stranger, because she was a mage, that much was obvious from the power distorting the air around her. 

But then she blinked, and the old woman’s image shifted. Instead of a suit of armor gleaming with polished scales, she wore a simple set of ragged robes. Her hair was lank. Her skin was grey and sagging, wan with fatigue and age. Her eyes were a normal, eerie shade of yellow, but they did not burn. They did not pulse. The air did not ripple with energy. 

The rage in Roslyn’s chest dimmed to a slow beat. 

“ _You_ ,” Leliana whispered, eyes wide with shock and disbelief. 

The old woman chuckled. “ _Me_. I thought I would see you again. Perhaps not so soon, but time is not what it used to be. I lose track of it now and again, but it always comes back around.”

“You died,” Leliana said more forcefully, the string of her bow going taut as she aimed her arrow directly at the old woman’s heart. “I saw you fall.”

“Spare yourself the mental acrobatics, girl. I stand before you. Perhaps I am a ghost, or a trick of your mind. Another vision to haunt your remaining days.” The old woman grinned as Leliana tensed. “Or perhaps you told yourself the fight was won to alleviate my daughter’s fear. Save your questions. You don’t have time to waste.”

Her eyes moved slowly to Roslyn, and held. 

The blank space in her mind lurched, and again the woman’s image shifted. But there was something wrong with it, something some part of her was desperately trying to reconcile. 

“What are you?” she managed after a silent moment. 

The old woman’s lips twitched, but the humor did not reach her eyes. “An ally, if you want one. And you will, before long.”

Rhaella stepped between them, holding her hands up for peace. “Flemeth is an old friend to the Chasind, and the Avvar. She has guided us through many trials.” The augur’s eyes went sharp as they settled on Roslyn. “It would be foolish to reject her aid.”

Flemeth. The word stirred something in the back of Roslyn’s mind, something separate from the lingering unease which pulsed in her chest. 

She looked again at Leliana, who still had her bow trained on the old woman, and back to this…Flemeth. “What are you offering?”

The old woman chuckled again, the sound grating as it seemed to echo around Roslyn’s ears and bounce off the surrounding trees. “Nothing, until I am sure of my own safety. Words exchanged over blades have a tendency to cut just as sharply.”

“Drop the illusion and I’ll think about sheathing my sword.”

Flemeth’s head cocked, and her lips pulled into a threatening smile. The air shimmered, and again she was decked in purple armor, cascading grey hair like coiled steel, shaped into horns wrapped with leather. The image held, and Roslyn saw her clearly now without the distortion of her warding magic.

The others, including Rhaella, gasped, but Roslyn could not tear her eyes from the horns curled up over her head. They looked…wrong. Insulting. As if the old woman were mocking her. 

Flemeth crossed gauntleted hands over her chest, tapping lethal black nails which looked more like talons against her armor. “You’ll forgive an old woman her tricks. Most greet my preferred form with a certain amount of fear. It can make for startling introductions, you understand.” She gave a dry laugh. “It’s not many who see to the heart of things, past artifice and enchantment. Clever girl.”

“Who are you to need to hide yourself in the guise of a frail old woman?” Cassandra said, voice sharp. “Why lie at all?”

Roslyn felt power rise beside her, and for the first time, she realized that she was sensing Cassandra’s abilities, different than a templar, but similar enough to make her uncomfortable.

“Cassandra,” Roslyn warned, “stand down.”

She met her gaze with incredulity, but acquiesced after a moment. 

With a tremendous force of effort, Roslyn willed her blade out of existence. The anchor dimmed as well, though she kept her aura tight around herself, ready should the old woman attack. The wolf too, was watchful, an intentional focus in its thoughts as it studied Flemeth.

She was powerful, clearly. But just how powerful, Roslyn could not begin to guess. 

The potency of her aura was plain, but there was no trace in the air of its signature, no threads to tease out and study. Flemeth, whoever she was, wore her aura as closely as she did her armor, with no cracks to allow anyone else to sense her true power. 

“Tell me who you are, now, or I walk away,” Roslyn murmured, taking a step toward the old woman and away from her companions. “As close to the truth as you can manage.”

“She is a witch of the wilds,” Leliana said harshly, her voice brittle. “I traveled with her daughter for some time during the Blight. My—friend,” she stumbled over the word, “the Hero of Ferelden, killed her when she learned what she was intending to do.”

“Which was?” Dorian prompted, looking over Flemeth with an almost begrudging admiration. 

Leliana lowered her bow at last. “She is hundreds of years old, prolonging her life by stealing the bodies of her daughters.”

A pause, and then Flemeth let out a cackling laugh. “Is that what my Morrigan thought? No wonder she wanted me dead.”

Roslyn looked to Rhaella, who was watching Flemeth with a hard, growing suspicion. The augur hadn’t known the full truth either, apparently. “Rhaella thought you could help us.”

“That would depend on the kind of help you require.”

“Where are the Grey Wardens massing in the Deep Roads? How can I transport my soldiers across the Wilds without getting stuck in a bog?” She paused, fighting against a strange unwillingness to ask anything more. “What is locked behind the doors the Wardens are trying to open?”

“Ah,” Flemeth mused, rough voice catching on a laugh, “you ask too much, girl. Tell an enemy your weakness and you might as well hand her the dagger yourself.”

Roslyn’s jaw clenched. “I thought you wanted to be my ally.”

“I make it my mission to watch closely those who bend the threads of fate. It always helps to have a hero who owes you a favor.” She smiled at Leliana. “How is your warden, by the way? I haven’t heard much of the famed Joanna Cousland for some time. One might think she has abandoned the world. Pity. She had the makings of a savior about her. But that heart…” 

Leliana’s eyes flashed with anger, but she said nothing. 

Flemeth sighed, practically purring with self-satisfaction. “It’s always the big-hearted who hurt the most, in the end.”

“Are you done?” Roslyn asked sharply. 

Flemeth met her gaze, eyes losing their mirth. “I can help you with your first two questions. For a price.”

Roslyn had the uncanny feeling of being back in the Fade with the desire demon in Gherlen’s Pass. The same foreboding, the same strange, pulsing heat in the center of her chest. 

Deals with demons and witches. Mad, to think she wasn’t even considering refusing now. 

“What kind of price?”

Cassandra tensed beside her. “You cannot seriously be thinking of allying with—”

Roslyn met her gaze, silencing the rest of her objection. There was no reason the old woman, whatever she was, would let them leave unscathed if she didn’t agree to her deal. Better to play nice, and work with her, than to refuse, and risk angering whatever lurked behind the old woman’s facade. 

Flemeth watched the interaction with a knowing smile. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d prefer to continue our negotiations alone.”

Dorian snorted. “What a ridiculous notion. Of course not.”

“There are some things better kept secret, boy. Some things the world is not yet ready to remember.”

The word rang like a bell in the back of Roslyn’s mind, leaving a resonant, lingering question. 

Both Dorian and Cassandra started to voice their objections, but they sounded strangely muted, as if coming from behind a closed door. Roslyn stared at the old woman, at her yellow eyes and scaled armor, and felt herself nod before she knew what she was doing. 

“I’ll meet you back at Ostagar.” She turned, spearing both of them with a hard gaze. “What do you think she’s going to do to me? She clearly wants something, or she wouldn’t have shown up.” She forced a smile to her lips, trying for something casual. “Have a little faith in me, please.”

Cassandra looked about ready to argue, but Leliana nodded. “Of course, Inquisitor.” She looked at Flemeth again, distrust shining out from her eyes. “How long will you be?”

“Oh, not long.” Flemeth smiled. “And don’t worry. I’m not in the habit of lying. I will leave that to my daughter.”

Leliana’s expression went flat, but she remained silent. 

After a moment, Cassandra relented, looking as if she had to physically pull herself away from Roslyn. No doubt she was preparing a tirade for when Roslyn returned. 

Dorian, too, seemed reluctant to leave. “You better not let this old hag kill you. I certainly won’t be the one to explain to a certain _elf_ why you didn’t come back.”

Rhaella said nothing, her eyes lingering on Flemeth as she left to follow the others back to Ostagar. 

The sounds of the wilds crowded in on Roslyn, and not for the first time, she felt as if eyes were peering out from the mist-choked trees and hillocks. The wolf was alert, focusing on the old woman with a flat, distrustful glare. 

_Not you too, please._

“You should discourage that behavior quickly,” Flemeth mused, watching her companions walk away. “Show them a firm hand now, react without impunity to any challenge to your authority, and you will save yourself trouble before it arrives.”

“And what do I owe you for that kernel of wisdom?”

Flemeth laughed. “Nothing. Take it as a gesture of good faith.”

“How generous of you.”

They stood in silence for a time, both of them studying the other. 

The nagging absence in the back of Roslyn’s head was growing sharp, and harder to ignore. “So, are you going to prove me a fool, or are you going to tell me what you want?”

Flemeth’s smile revealed the points of her teeth. “The Wardens have been gathering in the Deep Roads for months, in an old dwarven thaig thought lost to the Blight long ago. That thaig was built on something older, something more ancient than even their far-reaching empire could have imagined. A prison. Built to house something this world not seen in millennia.”

Roslyn frowned. “A spirit?”

Flemeth paced back, walking with purpose down the path, away from Roslyn. “Of a kind. Come, Inquisitor. I have something to show you.”

As soon as the old woman turned, Roslyn had the sudden, violent urge to bury her sword into her back. It was so strong, even the wolf was alarmed by its potency. She battled it back, reining in her aura before it could spiral out of control. 

What was wrong with her?

“Where are you taking me?”

Flemeth seemed not to find her reluctance troubling, but continued walking, either ignorant of the danger, or confident that she could shield herself against any attack. “The humans who built Ostagar spent long years trying to learn the secrets of the Wilds. They ranged far into the mists, only to come back empty handed or mad, or sometimes not at all. Occasionally, however, they unearthed treasures left by greater souls through sheer, dumb luck.”

She was far down the winding road now, far enough that her voice was starting to grow faint. 

Feeling as if she were playing out an old, well-worn game, Roslyn forced herself to follow. 

“Most of them were lost again, of course, when their little empire fell, tucked away in nice, neat, orderly graves just waiting to be plundered by the next intrepid adventurer who dared to brave this forsaken land.” Flemeth shot her a sly smile over her shoulder. “These parts have a reputation for turning away outsiders. A reputation I have done my best to encourage.”

“So the bit about you being a few centuries old wasn’t just bullshit?”

Flemeth chuckled. “Of course it was, girl.”

Roslyn noted that the old woman didn’t say whether the assessment of her being that old was exaggerated, or the opposite. 

They began to travel past ruins—crumbled walls, a few broken arches, the remains of what might have once been a sentry tower, but had since been nearly swallowed by a lake. The moss and lichen of the swamps crawled over the broken stones, giving her the impression that the wilderness had slowly and incessantly overtaken the Imperium’s attempts to tame it. 

“Leliana called you a witch of the wilds,” Roslyn said, unable to bear the silence. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“It’s a name the Chasind gave me long ago,” Flemeth mused, trailing her taloned hands through a curtain of vines falling over the crumbled remains of a bridge. “But what is a witch, really, except a woman with power that others fear? You might one day find yourself named a witch as well.”

The thought did not sit well in Roslyn’s stomach. “So it’s an empty title?”

Flemeth stopped before a large structure, covered almost entirely with lichen and moss, like the body of a great beast covered in a blanket, resting in the sunken ground. Her eyes flashed darkly yellow, and she grinned. “I never said that. It is a name. One of many which have been given to me over my long life.” She considered Roslyn, expression fierce and yet speculative. “How many names do you have, Inquisitor?”

Roslyn didn’t answer. 

“Another piece of friendly advice—your name means nothing if people don’t know it.” 

Flemeth turned, and with a wave of her gauntleted hand, wiped aside a warding barrier around the ruin. The air shimmered, and then fell back like a thin stream of water being parted. A round pavilion appeared in the swamp, arches framing the sunken, tiered structure with graceful, flowing lines. Broken mosaic tiles covered the floor and stairs, scuffed and obscured with dirt, but visible where clean chips caught the faint light and shone violet and orange. Roslyn’s eyes were drawn at once to the center, where a single, raised platform stood. Nearly ten feet across, made of white marble threaded with the same purple and orange veins as the tile, it looked largely untouched by the encroachment of the swamp. 

Roslyn stared, the image fixed in her mind, recalling another ruin where a single raised dais had stood amidst broken mosaics. 

But this dais was not empty. 

A towering, slender mirror sat perfectly balanced in the center of the pavilion. Its surface was black and still, looking more like a pane of smoothed stone than reflective glass. Its edges were gilded and carved in leaf-like patterns, a script flowing gracefully around the entire frame. The longer Roslyn looked, the more they pulled at her mind, as if their meaning was being held just out of reach. 

The wolf, too, seemed to take particular notice. It rose, pacing in the back of her mind as it whined to get nearer. 

_Easy_ , she thought, wondering at its urgency. _Give me a minute._ “This place is elven.”

Flemeth’s brow lifted, as if she were surprised. “It was, once upon a time.”

Roslyn nodded, swallowing back her nerves. The spiritual energy had dimmed the closer she got to the ruin, and now that Flemeth had dropped her wards around this place, Roslyn could feel nothing from the Fade. Even the swamp had grown silent. 

It was as if the mirror was the center of a slow-moving pool, radiating inward in a silent, oppressive wake, dulling the energy around it. 

“In the time of Elvhenan, they were called eluvians.”

Roslyn tore her gaze from the mirror to see a strange calm settled over Flemeth, her face almost soft, wistful. 

“You might have noticed there are no roads left from their empire, no grand highways mark their influence, no paths to connect their seemingly vast lands together.” The old woman frowned, and the sudden softness vanished from her expression. “The answer to your second question. I give you a way to transport your soldiers quickly to the Wardens you seek. As for where they are camped…”

Another wave of her hand, and she upheld her palm. 

On it, sat a small, white crystal. 

Roslyn jerked back, aura sparking to life as she conjured her sword and leveled it at the old woman’s throat. “What is this?” she growled, sending out her consciousness to prepare for any sign of an attack from behind, for the hum of red lyrium, or the bite of a Venatori mage’s spell.

Flemeth only cocked her head, a curious smile playing over her lips. “It has many names, just like you and I. Call it a keystone, if you wish. It certainly doesn’t warrant a sword pointed at my breast.”

Roslyn’s eyes flashed to the stone—larger, smoother than the white crystal tucked under her shirt, but made of unmistakably the same substance. 

As her heart beat fast and the wolf’s hackles raised, she recalled another strange meeting.

The demon wearing the marquis’s face had said something about… _an old bitch_. An old bitch who had lost her edge. 

Something clicked in Roslyn’s mind, and she suddenly wondered if she hadn’t made a terrible mistake in following this woman into the wilderness alone. 

She straightened, fighting the urge to fight, or flee. “Sorry,” she forced herself to murmur, sheathing her blade and drawing her aura back in tight. The wolf remained vigilant, keeping its gaze split on the old woman and their surroundings. She could hear the wind whispering over the peat-tinged water, smell the ice drifting up from the south, feel the brush of long grass through her boots, but her attention hung on the old woman’s every movement. “I’ve seen a stone like that before. It didn’t end well.”

Flemeth missed nothing, but she seemed willing to accept Roslyn’s justification. “This kind of white opal is useful for soul resonance. Perfect for activating an eluvian, if the mage be powerful enough.”

Roslyn tried not to react, but she couldn’t help the clench of her hand, the heat racing up her neck. 

Soul resonance. 

Alexius had said the stone had imprinted to her in Redcliffe, even across time. 

“Uncanny little things,” Flemeth mused, her eyes locked on Roslyn’s face. “Dangerous in the wrong hands. But seeing as you’ve already got something of the elves in one hand, I think you might be able to handle yourself.”

Roslyn swallowed, but held the old woman’s gaze, refusing to take her bait. So she knew the anchor was elven. She was clearly hiding much. “You’ve shown me a stone and a mirror. What am I supposed to do with either?”

Flemeth chuckled, and tossed the stone through the air.

Before she could think, Roslyn caught it.

As soon as it touched her skin, it reacted, casting white beams of light over the ruined pavilion. An answering bell rang in the back of her mind, and she felt the amulet twitch against her chest.

Roslyn waited, heart in her throat, but no rifts opened over her head to suck her through time, no winged woman appeared in a flash of burning silver, no figure draped in black stepped through a hole in the world.

Nothing happened, except for a small, subtle shift in her aura. It was similar to the feeling she got when she returned to Skyhold, as if her own aura were being shown to her, laid out clearly, before it was set aside again. As if the stone were attuning to her. 

“You _have_ touched one of the old stones before,” Flemeth said softly, her voice vibrating through the air on a low, gravelly tone. “Perhaps there’s more to you than meets the eye, girl.”

“Another thing we have in common, then.”

The old woman’s laugh cracked across the silent pavilion. “Oh, you don’t know how right you are. Come, then. Let me show you what that uncanny stone can do beyond this pretty dance of light.”

Flemeth turned and stepped toward the mirror, holding up her hand to press against the dark glass. 

Roslyn watched her with baited breath, and could not help but feel like she had seen this happen before. 

The mirror’s surface rippled, and then a wealth of color bled from the tips of Flemeth’s taloned fingers. Inky darkness radiated out to the frame, sucked into the curling script like a sponge. The glass settled into a tableau of buttery, shifting color. 

Roslyn frowned, stepping forward to see more clearly the outline of buildings, the rough sketch of a pink-tinged sky, large, rounded trees undulating in a gentle breeze. “What did you do?” she murmured.

Flemeth gave her a small smile. “This mirror has lain dormant for a long time. You should count yourself lucky it was not tainted.”

Roslyn tensed, staring at the old woman. “Tainted?”

“With the Blight,” she said simply, as if the idea were no more troubling than the coming of rain clouds. 

Before Roslyn could ask anything more, the old woman winked, and stepped into the mirror. 

The glass warped, something thicker than water parting around her body, and swallowed her in a flash of golden light. 

Roslyn stared, hand clenched over the white opal keystone, unable to move. 

With all she had seen in the past year and a half, with everything she knew now of magic and the Fade, of spirits and demons and the darker secrets of the world her Circle had shielded her from, she should not be afraid of this. 

But she was, and she couldn’t explain why. 

She gave herself the span of three breaths to shove down her fear and remind herself that she was not the frightened young girl who had jumped at shadows and crumbled at the first sign of magic she did not understand. She was the Inquisitor. The Herald of Andraste. She’d bound a spirit to her will and faced down an archdemon. She had stepped through time and seen a world ruined beyond recognition. 

She was greater than this fear. 

Roslyn took one last breath, and stepped through the mirror after Flemeth. 

The world beyond it was not the Fade. That much she knew. 

It did not feel light and free, like stepping through clouds on a bright, sunny day. It did not shift and form to her mind, following her every thought and whim. It was fixed and firm, and there was something fundamentally wrong hovering in the air. 

The road she stood on was dark. The lights in the metal trees lining the fine marble road were faint, glowing with a dim, radiating blue. In the distance, swirls of color painted the sky in shades of green and pink, but they seemed reluctant to form anything more than the impression of a vista. As if only a memory were left of the sky it had once been. 

It was not silent, but there were no sounds of people or activity, nothing but the whisper of wind across the road, the echo of her own breathing and beating heart. 

“What happened here?” she asked, her voice rebounding against the smooth stone, the slight, sculptural trees. 

Flemeth did not answer at first, and when Roslyn turned to look at her, she found a slight smile across the old woman’s lips.

“Like all things old enough to become great, this place fell to the chaos of change. What it once was, I will not tell you. What it is now, I call the World Between. A place for those who wander to lose themselves, to remember the world as it used to be, and as it will never be again.”

“What does that mean?”

“The elves once traveled the span of the world, girl. They needed a place to do so quickly, and without trouble. Thus, they built this. Borne of the Fade but not quite beholden to it, these roads allowed them to travel across what are now the human kingdoms in a matter of hours.”

Roslyn tensed. A matter of hours? “And these are…connected to the Deep Roads?”

“Some are. Most are not. I’m doing you a great favor in giving you that keystone to awaken this section.”

“Are there other sections which might be awake? Other places people could travel over vast distances quickly?”

Flemeth considered her. “You think your Elder One has access to this place. I understand your alarm, but I wouldn’t worry yourself. If a grasping usurper like her had unlocked the World Between, I don’t think you and I would be having this conversation.” Her mouth twitched intothe hint of a smile. “I think you would be dead.”

She began to walk, the sharp strike of her boots loud amidst the echoing stillness. Roslyn followed, fighting the urge to look behind her. She could not shake the feeling that this place had just been full of people, full of life, only for everyone to suddenly vanish without a trace. 

The keystone pulsed in Roslyn’s clenched hand, and she started as a line of light arced through the air, twirling and spiraling into the air before her. As she looked forward, the strange distortion cleared, and more trees appeared along the side of the road. The colors of the sky brightened, shining pearlescent and vibrant. It reminded her of the stained glass in Skyhold, when the morning sun broke through the clouds and cast patterns of shifting light over the great hall. 

“That keystone will allow you to travel only a certain distance through this world,” Flemeth said, watching Roslyn out of the corner of her eye, “so be careful that you don’t overexert yourself.”

“I’m directing the thread? How am I supposed to know where to go?” 

Flemeth chuckled. “I’ll show you, of course. The keystone is simply committing this path to memory. This place has a way of shifting on you these days. Even the keenest mind might be led astray.”

Roslyn followed, fighting the urge to turn and leave. It wasn’t…fear, exactly, but there was something about this place which made her nervous. As if she wasn’t supposed to be here. 

The wolf did not seem to be having the same struggles, greeting the spiral trees with a kind of excitement, peering down the branching lanes with fondness, and longing. 

_Do you remember this place?_

The wolf sent her a thread of hesitant confirmation. 

It made sense, in a way. If the demon in Gherlen’s Pass was to be believed, the wolf, or the energy contained within the anchor, was thousands of years old. If it had truly resided in an Ancient Elven artifact, perhaps it had once experienced this place as it should have been. 

The thought made nerves spider down her spine. 

A spark of darkness caught her attention, and she looked to her left. At the end of a long, winding road, lined with the same spiral trees, the same grey marble, stood another eluvian. Like the eluvian in the Korcari Wilds, it was black, but not mirky, or clouded. 

It was the pitch black glass of obsidian. A crack ran down the center, splitting the mirror in two. Smoke poured from the sundered surface, drifting up into the air, staining the sunset sky with inky tendrils. 

“I told you some paths were better left unexamined.”

Roslyn tensed, turning to see Flemeth staring at the black mirror with hard, unreadable yellow eyes. “Is that what it looks like when a mirror is tainted with the Blight?”

“No.” Flemeth turned, silencing any further inquiry with the firm strike of her heels. 

Roslyn followed, trying not to look back at the black mirror. 

The path took two more bends, the light from the keystone branching forward in a rainbow arrow, anticipating her intent. At a final branch, Flemeth stopped in the center of a wide, circular pavilion, arching walls open to the sky, mirrors standing on five platforms out of nine. The other four were empty, with shattered glass on three. The last was barren, a space of empty air to Roslyn’s left. 

Flemeth gestured to the center, where a dais was set with a white basin. Liquid shimmered inside, rippling the closer Roslyn got. 

“Hold the keystone over the basin to activate this branch of eluvians. That one,” Flemeth pointed to one of the mirrors, brighter than the others, glowing a brilliant, almost lyrium-esque blue, “will lead you to the outside of the thaig where the Wardens have been gathering. You need to be present when your people step through, or else they will be locked on either side. That stone, and your soul, are now the keys. What might have taken you weeks to transport your considerable force, will now take you the better part of a day.” She grinned. “Perhaps a bit more, if the majority of your soldiers are human.”

Roslyn frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“These roads were built by the elves. Everyone else will find themselves…struggling to understand the appeal.” She let out a soft chuckle at Roslyn’s continued silence. “Don’t worry, girl. Your soldiers face no danger here, only a reminder that the world was once ruled by those whom they now oppress.”

Throat tight, Roslyn looked over the mirrors again, wondering if that was the reason for her unease. 

She was not truly an elf. Perhaps the roads could sense the blood of her human father pumping in her veins. 

“How do I know you’re not lying?” she muttered. “How do I know you haven’t led me into some kind of trap?”

“Feel free to step through now, if you like, though I would suggest stepping carefully. The Grey Wardens chose a precarious place to unleash their plan. You’ve felt the tremors?” Something flickered in Flemeth’s expression. “The pillars of the earth do not like being threatened.”

Roslyn slipped the keystone into her belt pouch, committing this place to memory even with the thread of light spiraling past her, illuminating the path she’d taken to arrive here. “All right. You’ve answered two of my questions. What about the third? What are the Wardens trying to free?”

Flemeth’s brow arched, looking almost amused. “You are insistent. I like that about you.” She crossed her arms, leaning back in consideration. “Something they do not understand. Something best left caged.”

“You know what it is?”

“I do.”

Roslyn waited. “Nothing else?”

“I’ve given you more than I should have,” Flemeth said, voice growing sharp. “You are the hero the world needs, Inquisitor, not I. Take the assistance, and fight your foe. Or don’t. It wouldn’t be the first time the threads of fate were cut before their time.”

All this talk of fate rapped at that place where she’d kept the hope, small, but growing, that there was some reason for all of this, some reason she’d been in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, some reason she had survived. 

Some reason she saw silver wings every night when she closed her eyes. 

“You don’t want whatever it is getting out, do you?” Roslyn mused, noting the sharp tips of Flemeth’s gauntlets digging into her arms. 

“No one does, girl.” Flemeth stepped forward, tipping her chin back. She was still an inch shorter than Roslyn, but she looked like a tower. “Trust me when I say that you don’t either. It would make your Elder One look like a squalling child, and the Breach which rent the heavens merely a foul storm.” The old woman turned, stalking toward one of the standing mirrors. 

“You haven’t told me what you wanted in exchange for your help,” Roslyn called, for some reason wanting to follow her out of this echoing, empty place. 

Flemeth chuckled and stopped before the mirror. “Haven’t I? Well, I suppose I can ask something more of you, if you’re so willing.”

Framed in the shifting light of the eluvian, Flemeth looked strange, as if the soft colors only emphasized the sharp lines of her feathered pauldrons, the point of her iron coronet. 

“Or perhaps I shall wait,” she mused, pressing her hand to the mirror’s surface. “I do so enjoy meddling in the lives of heroes. You, I think will be something to watch.”

“That wasn’t our deal,” Roslyn said darkly.

Flemeth laughed. “We struck no deal, girl. I have given you aid because I wish the Grey Wardens to remember that they are not above reproach, and that the old secrets of this world are not theirs to toy with. Whatever else I might ask of you in the future is not your most pressing concern. Don’t worry. I can tell that you will wreak havoc on this world, before you’re through. I enjoy a bit of chaos every now and again.”

The eluvian brightened, giving Roslyn a brief image of red sand and a baleful sun. Flemeth hesitated, looking over her with scrutiny. “A final word of advice? You wear the mark of the young wolf well, girl, but remember this—it will _never_ forget its true nature. And when it turns on you, and it will, be ready to harden your heart. It will make your revenge that much sweeter.”

And with that, Flemeth stepped through the mirror, and vanished in a flash of light. 

Roslyn stared at the still surface of the eluvian, fighting the urge to shatter the glass. 

_Stupid_ , she cursed herself, pacing back with clenched hands as she tried to work through her undirected anger. She wanted to break the basin of rippling white liquid. She wanted to blast the mirrors over the edge of their pretty, elegant platforms. She wanted to scream and scream and rip the peaceful serenity of this place to shreds. 

Once again, she’d put herself in the power of something she didn’t understand. Once again, she found herself with more questions than answers. How many times would she walk willingly into the mouth of the beast only for it to change its mind at the last second because it found her _amusing_?

The amulet resting on her chest was warm, as if reminding her that she knew nothing. That she’d been handed a weapon just as likely to kill her as it would her enemies. She was staring at a map with no names and no lines, waiting for the murky image to form while the world burned around her. 

She pushed her hair back angrily, tying it into a tighter knot. 

Her breath echoed against the distant edges of this world between, bouncing back and giving her the impression of endless, boundless space. 

Why then did she feel as if she were being pressed down and smothered?

Turning one last time to ensure that the eluvian to the Deep Roads still glowed fiercely blue, she left the rotunda and made her way back to the Korcari Wilds. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter, I know, but I needed to fit a lot into this encounter. I hope it doesn't feel forced. The end of this fic was a bit like me trying to pull nails out of a wall with only my fingers. Also I love Flemeth so like...I wanted to give her a bit of space to be her extra special self. As always, your kudos and comments sustain me. Thank you all so much for trucking along <3


	44. Exile from the Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YT-ECHaz4PE&t=0s&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&index=46)

Roslyn wasted no time in returning to Ostagar. She ignored the lingering anxiety racing up her spine. She ignored the tingling sensation on the back of her neck that something was watching her. She ignored the whispered voice that warned her of the possibility that Flemeth had been maneuvering her into a trap. 

She’d been given a way to head off the Wardens, to end whatever they were planning sooner rather than later. That would need to be enough. 

The guards at the edge of the fortress saluted when she walked past, seemingly surprised to see her back so soon. It was only then that she looked up at the sky. The sun had barely moved from over her head. It was only an hour or so past midday.

Was time in the Crossroads different, then? The Fade warped one’s perception of time, perhaps this…place constructed by the Ancient Elves followed its own rules as well. 

Soldiers gathered to watch her progress through the fortress, huddling in the shadows of crumbled arches and courtyards. The tension thronging in the air seemed close to breaking. She didn’t know what she looked like, but she could guess that it wasn’t approachable. The last of her own troops had arrived last night, putting their numbers close to six thousand souls, not counting King Alistair’s reinforcements, the legion of dwarves led by the mysterious twins, nor the small, but enthusiastic group of Avvar and Chasind whom Amund had corralled into some semblance of a squad.

At the back of the upper ward of the compound, where she had set up her tent in the shelter of a ruined watchtower, she found Cassandra and Leliana speaking together in hushed voices behind their hastily constructed base of operations. Tables and chairs were placed across the courtyard, covered in maps and lists, accounting for everything they would need for an extended siege. A few soldiers milled about, along with some of her inner circle who had joined the fight. Dorian, Isahn, and Varric were all chatting by the fire. Hawke and Sera were nowhere to be found, but she did see Wardens Stroud, Rainier, and Aeducan, speaking with Rylen, near the back of the courtyard. Cole was probably trying to alleviate the fears of the soldiers. 

She cast her gaze over them all as she walked for some sign of Solas. Before she shared anything about the eluvians, she needed to speak to him.

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra called, drawing her attention. “I… We expected you—”

“There’s been a development. I need to call a council. Now. Rylen,” she raised her voice, “Wardens Aeducan, Rainier, and Stroud, if you’re free. Do we have any idea where Amund or the twins are?”

Cassandra went red at the mention of the augur’s name and cleared her throat, while Leliana said efficiently, “In the lower ward. I can send someone to retrieve them all.”

“Do. Rhaella as well. I don’t want to have to explain this twice.” 

Leliana left as the others convened in Roslyn’s wake. 

“I assume your meeting went,” Cassandra hesitated, “ _well_?”

Roslyn continued to search the courtyard. “That would be one word for it.”

“What are you doing?” 

“Have you seen—” But just as she was turning to look again, she spotted Solas moving amongst the small station he’d set up to aid the Inquisition healers. “Get everyone together. I’ll be right back.”

She jogged away from Cassandra before she could object, and made her way quickly up a flight of stairs to a side chamber whose walls had long since fallen into disrepair. 

“Everything okay, Red?” Varric called.

“Fine, Varric,” she shouted back, just as Solas looked up and caught her gaze. 

His brow furrowed as he set aside his pack, full to the brim with elfroot and other herbs. 

“I need to speak to you. Alone,” she murmured, looking over his shoulder to ensure no one else was planning to join them. 

His body went taut, his expression remote, but he followed willingly as she grabbed his arm and pulled him into the shadow of one of the still intact arches. 

When she was sure they couldn’t be overheard, she dropped his hand and murmured, “Have you heard of something called an eluvian?”

The crease in his brow deepened, but he didn’t hesitate to answer. “I have.”

“Do you know what they are?”

His eyes narrowed, head tilting slightly to the side in confusion. “I know what I have seen in the Fade. Memories of highways traversing a world apart from the material, of mirrors locked to all but those who knew where to find them. They were made by my people at the height of their power, and lost when Elvhenan fell.”

Some of her tension unwound at hearing that Flemeth hadn’t taken her into some strange pocket of the Fade to lure her soldiers to their deaths. The eluvians were real, not simply a trick. 

“There’s one located an hour south of this fortress,” she said in a rush. 

His lips parted in surprise, a flash of something like excitement in his eyes, quickly hidden by more confusion. “You…you are sure?”

She nodded. “Rhaella’s…friend. She showed it to me.”

“She led you to an eluvian? Ah, and no doubt told you of the stories.” His expression smoothed, growing remorseful. “Without the old magics of my people, you would not be able to use one.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have searched the Fade for any trace of memory, any hint as to how one might access them without turning to more…unsavory methods, but I have found nothing.”

Her stomach dropped. “How unsavory?”

He studied her, a question forming in his eyes. “Without the aid of a powerful demon, one old enough to remember the ancient roads and the ways one unlocked such an artifact, I’m afraid the eluvians are all but powerless now.”

Roslyn stared, a slow wave of dread building in the back of her mind. 

A powerful demon. One old enough to remember. 

And she had just followed one blindly into a magic mirror. How many times could she stick her hand into the flames without being burned?

Solas touched her arm, a gesture of comfort, sending a jolt of feeling over her skin. He stepped close, regret pulling at his eyes. “It might have seemed like a good—”

“I can use them.”

His grip tightened ever so slightly, but his voice remained cautious. “Roslyn, they aren’t—”

“The old woman, the witch, she… She gave me a keystone.”

Solas’s expression froze, eyes locked on hers. He stood like that for a long time, fingers digging into the skin of her upper arms, close enough for her to kiss. 

“Solas,” she murmured, pressing her palm to his stomach, as much a reassurance for herself as for him. It was strange still, this casual, soft touching—as if they were both trying to learn how to be near each other. “I know it sounds insane, but…” She exhaled, trying form her thoughts into something resembling coherence. She could only imagine what he was thinking—realizing that a piece of his people’s history, something he’d thought was lost, might be within his reach. “I went to that place the elves made. She called it the World Between. I think… I think it’s our best chance to catch the Wardens off their guard, but I…”

Solas took a slow breath and looked down, a distant light in his eyes. 

“The idea of it becoming public knowledge, of anyone else finding out about this place…” 

It would change the world irrevocably. If the leaders of Orlais, or Ferelden, or, Maker forbid, _Tevinter_ , knew about a network of mirrors hidden across Thedas that would allow them to outmaneuver their opponents, to cut off rebellions before they could start, to assassinate with impunity at night and be on the other side of the continent in less time it took for the sun to rise—it would be chaos. 

The weight was too much for her to bear alone. 

“I didn’t know who else to go to,” she murmured. “This… It wasn’t my decision to make. Not entirely. It’s elven. Or they were. I couldn’t in good conscience hand it over to the Inquisition without—”

He looked up at last, expression pained. The light in his eyes had grown piercing. “You want my advice about whether or not to reveal my people’s secrets, even at the expense of your own soldiers?”

A flutter of doubt broke through her conviction. “I can go ask Sera, if you think it would be more productive.”

He let out a startled laugh, the sound easing her tension. “I think it would be more productive to ask one of the Avvar warriors the proper custom for courting an Orlesian duke.” It took him another moment to gather himself, brow furrowed in intense thought. His grip tightened over her upper arms, and, distractingly, some part of her thrilled at the suggestion. “You said this woman gave you a keystone?”

Roslyn pulled out the white crystal from her belt, showing it to him. She couldn’t help sliding her thumb over its surface. It was unmarred by any thread of darkness in its center, the size of roll of bread. She probably could have taken it to Val Royeaux and gotten herself the funds to build a new ward for her healers back at Skyhold. “It will supposedly unlock only a few mirrors, the one in the Korcari Wilds, and the one leading down to the dwarven thaig. Honestly, I don’t know if it will be easier for us to travel through the mirrors than the Deep Roads, or where it will spit us out, even if it is faster. The old woman mentioned something about elves having an better time of it than everyone else.”

His eyes flicked up from staring at the stone. “Did _you_ find it uncomfortable?”

She thought of her unease, her sense of claustrophobia, and shook her head. “Not physically. But it’s…unsettling.”

Solas stared at her for a moment, as if her response frustrated him, before he looked back at the stone. “You are right that widespread knowledge of such a place would encourage ideas of pillaging, and worse, but I think you worry unnecessarily. Any who wish to enter this…World Between must have the necessary passphrase to unlock an eluvian, and only those which have already been activated.” When he continued, his voice was soft. “The passphrase you chose would need to be given out only to those you trust.”

She frowned. “Passphrase?”

“The phrase you spoke as a key to lock the network of eluvians behind you.”

“I didn’t speak a phrase. They’re supposed to open with this keystone.”

Confusion flickered across his face. “You didn’t… Did this woman give you her name?”

“Flemeth. Rhaella called her a witch of the wilds, whatever that means.”

He frowned. “What did she look like?”

“An old woman with yellow eyes. Purple armor. Penchant for black feathers and horns. She looked rather impressive once she dropped the old hag act, actually.”

His mouth opened, and then he went still. A strange calm settled over his features. He straightened, eyes going distant as he stared over her head. 

Roslyn waited, giving him time to speak whatever was passing through his mind, but he remained silent. “Solas, I can’t ignore this opportunity. We have to use the eluvians to transport our soldiers, but I don’t think anyone else needs to know that this is more than a solitary path. Maybe I can play it off like it’s a secret backdoor to the thaig, and this witch betrayed the Wardens or something. I don’t want people unearthing every mirror in Thedas trying to enter a secret elven realm.”

Solas refocused on her. His expression hardened, something solidifying in his eyes, and he bent to give her a quick, fierce kiss. It was nothing more than a hard press of his lips, not quite bruising, not quite violent, but potent like a jolt of lightning down her spine. 

Before she could so much as respond, he breathed, “Thank you for coming to me first.”

“Solas,” she grabbed his arm as he pulled away, “what—”

“I’ve contacted some of the more powerful spirits in the area in the past few days. They might know more of this witch, and any ulterior motives she could possess.” He placed his hand over hers where it still rested on his forearm, picked it up to press a kiss to her palm. “I’ll return soon. I swear it. We should know as much as we can before we venture through this place.”

Roslyn watched him leave, mind conflicted with the feeling of his lips still pressed to hers, the keystone clutched in her hand. 

She watched him, and wondered if there was something more to his preoccupation than the excitement over a magic mirror. 

 

~  ✧ ~

 

The meeting with her inner circle went fast, faster than Roslyn had anticipated. No one had seemed particularly enthusiastic about traveling through a network of magic mirrors, but after a few brave soldiers had volunteered to test them out, and her lieutenants had seen for themselves this place beyond the material world which would grant them an advantage over the Wardens, they’d had no more objections. Working in teams, she had allowed Qestyra and Boreya to scout into the Deep Roads, confirming the location, and finding a place where their troops could amass to assault the Grey Warden forces. Stroud’s estimate had been high, it turned out, which made Roslyn more nervous. Where had the other wardens gone, if they had not remained with Clarel? Had they defected, like Stroud and Aeducan, or had something else happened to them down in the Deep Roads?

It turned out that Flemeth was right in that anyone save elves having more difficulty traveling between the eluvians. They moved slower, seemed to be in some amount of pain, and did not see the same shifting lights, the same colorful accents of cloud, that she and the rest of the elves saw. She tried not to think on this new development, and what it meant that she, a half-elf, seemed to have no trouble other than her own internal discomfort. Perhaps it was simply the wolf, and not her own heritage, which made the difference. There were no other half-elves to hand that she could compare herself to. None that she knew of, at least. It was a question that made her nervous, and so she tried not to linger on it too long. It wasn’t as if she had enough on her mind to rest uneasy that night. 

That afternoon saw the soldiers mustered to move out come morning. Most had been ready for the past five days, waiting in the ruins of Ostagar, wondering when the call to battle would come. Roslyn could feel the energy of the fortress shift almost immediately. What had once been stagnant and oppressive turned thick with anticipation. 

This would be the first chance the Inquisition got to test its mettle. The first chance to fight, and prove to the world that they had not been broken at Haven. It was bad luck that their fight would happen deep underground out of the eyes of most of Thedas, but she was sure that Josephine would spread the outcome far and wide to bolster their reputation. 

If they succeeded, of course. If they failed, if she fell, if no one got out alive—what would the world think then?

Amidst the chaos, Roslyn found Dorian, who had been tasked with helping account for their provisions once they made it through the eluvians. 

She pulled him to the side, noting that Isahn was watching them from the other side of the yard. The old elf was too damn observant. 

“I think I’ve changed my mind about coming along with you from now on,” Dorian muttered, pulling the edges of his cloak more tightly around him. “Unless you decide to attack someone on a warm beach, you can count me out of any future excursions.”

“What happened to fighting the good fight? Ridding the world of evil and corruption?”

“I’ll fight the good fight from the comfort of my armchair back at Skyhold. At least for the few months it takes me to get warm again. Maker’s mercy, it’s so cold down here. I don’t know how you all stand it.” He took in her expression, and lowered his voice. “This doesn’t have anything to do with you sending Solas off on a secret mission, does it? Because I’m starting to feel like you regard him as more capable than me.”

She tried to smile, but her mouth seemed to be fixed in a frown. “I didn’t send him off on a secret mission. Not everything is a covert attempt to exclude you. I…I wasn’t entirely truthful about the eluvians.”

“Oh, really?” he deadpanned. “I’m shocked.”

Roslyn frowned. 

“Come now, you didn’t expect everyone to believe it was merely a coincidence that these _two_ mirrors happened to lead to the exact, _lost_ dwarven thaig the Grey Wardens have massed inside? The Maker does seem to like his little moments of irony when it comes to you, but this would be downright favoritism. I simply don’t believe that’s His style.”

She took out the keystone and showed it to him, fighting the nerves crawling up her spine. “This allows me to open some of the eluvians, but—Dorian, look at the type of stone.”

He looked bemused, but obeyed, frowning slightly. “Well, it’s very pretty. I… Hold on. This can’t be the same—”

“As the amulet,” she finished, pulling it out from her shirt and holding them both side by side. She waited, half-convinced they would start to shine or open up a hole under her feet, but nothing happened. “The witch said it was a stone used for _soul_ resonance.”

“Soul resonance? What in Maker’s name is that?”

“I don’t know, but it has to be linked somehow. Why else would it have worked to send us back to the present at Redcliffe? I must have…imprinted, or something, on the amulet.”

Dorian’s head cocked, a faraway expression settling on his face. “That…would follow. It’s attuned to you, so perhaps Alexius tapped into that connection to aid his opening of the rift. It would erase you from time, bridge the gap, working on the past and the future all at once.” His mustache twitched as he smiled. “It’s kind of poetic, when you think about it. Though I doubt Alexius could predict that it would still work on you, after he failed, allowing us to travel back to our own timeline.”

Roslyn stared, waiting for him to make the connection to her visions. When he merely continued to smile at her, she muttered, “Dorian, this can’t be a coincidence. It’s…the same kind of stone the Alamarri leader, the Avvar blood mage, the Tevene high priestess—the same _all_ of them used. If they were trying to channel energy through something which could carry the imprint of a soul…” She trailed off, waiting for him to catch on to her train of thought. 

What did it mean that she now had the same kind of stone? And why was the winged woman interested in it?

Dorian frowned, a quizzical smile pulling at his mouth. “What are you talking about, Roslyn? How do you know Rhaella is a blood mage? Does she have a white opal stone as well? They’re becoming rather ubiquitous at this rate.”

The sounds of the fortress dimmed as Roslyn held his gaze. As her heartbeat thudded behind her sternum. “No, not Rhaella. The Avvar mage in my vision.”

His eyes widened. “ _Vision_? Sweet Andraste, don’t let anyone else hear you joke like that. They already worship the ground you walk on.”

At her silence, his expression fell. “You are joking, yes? You don’t look like you’re joking. You’ve got that thousand-yard stare in your eyes that usually precipitates something fantastic and terrifying.” He blinked a few times, and lowered his voice. “You’ve been having…visions?”

“You knew this,” she murmured, trying to tamp down on her growing sense of unease at the blank expression on his face. “The visions of the winged woman. The ones I thought were dreams, but aren’t.”

But there was no recognition in his eyes. Nothing but a growing sense of concern. “Roslyn, dear heart,” he started, voice low and calm, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. The last you mentioned of your morbid amulet was when I asked you if you would one day explain it to me.”

A distant roaring began in the back of her mind, as if she’d been thrown back in time to Haven. To the moment she’d watched Derek vehemently deny that he had ever met her in the Witchwood. To the first time she had tried to recall what happened at the Conclave, and found nothing but a blank space and a sense of deep, unnerving loss. 

Dorian was not lying to her. She knew him well enough to know that. 

“You don’t remember having a conversation about my amulet in a closet back in Skyhold a few months ago when I came back from the Bannorn?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level. “I told you I’d been having visions of a winged woman, that she had come to me more than once. That I was starting to suspect she was Andraste.”

“I…remember you pulling me into a closet. You were somewhat overwhelmed by everything to do with being Inquisitor, understandably, but…” His expression had grown almost pained. “There are no mentions of wings in relation to Andraste, Roslyn.”

Roslyn exhaled as the bottom dropped out of her stomach. 

Some part of her realized what must be happening, what _had_ already happened to her—the blank space in the back of her mind, the clawing, gnawing urgency that _something_ was missing—but she couldn’t process it. 

Her lovely, caring, brilliant friend was staring at her with wide, alarmed eyes, thinking she must be going mad to have imagined such a conversation. Did he think she was finally cracking? He had believed her once. He had told her she wasn’t going mad, had promised to help her. Would he believe her again? Or would he…forget?

“Have you been sleeping well?” he asked, cringing slightly as he tried to play the caretaker. “If…you’re struggling with…visions, you might want to speak to Solas. He might understand. Perhaps it’s a side effect of the anchor. You did bind it to you. We all knew there would be consequences.” He took a step in front of her, shielding her from prying eyes. “Perhaps we should finish this conversation somewhere else? You’ve gone white as a sheet. Maybe if you start from the beginning we can figure out—”

“No,” she said, voice cracking as she stepped back. “No, you’re right. I…haven’t been sleeping well. I’m fine, Dorian, I just… I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Part of her screamed to tell him what was happening. That she _had_ told him of the winged woman and the amulet. That he had sworn to help her figure it out. That he had believed her. 

But the flame in her chest burned, and the blank space in her mind pulsed, and she knew, somehow, that there was something else at work here. Something not even her brilliant friend could understand.

The same thing which had wiped her memory after the Conclave?

“That’s more than understandable,” he said slowly, sharp eyes taking in her discomfort. “I’m sure that whatever you’ve been seeing has an explanation. You are Andraste’s Herald. That’s bound to toy with your mind, you being a dreamer, after all. But if you need to talk, you know I’m—”

She felt herself shaking her head, blinking, trying for a pained smile. 

Even the wolf sensed her building panic, rising to press its consciousness against hers in comfort. Did it remember the conversation? Would she even be able to tell? Did it know what was happening in the other parts of herself, the parts it didn’t live in? _I’m fine_ , she thought, forcing herself to take a step back. She slid the keystone back into her belt, tucked the amulet under her shirt. _I’m fine. I’m going to be fine._

“I’m probably half-mad, at this point,” she said, conjuring a small laugh to cut her words. 

_He doesn’t remember._ Why _doesn’t he remember?_

“Only half,” Dorian mused, alarm still hovering in his eyes. 

He wasn’t stupid. He could tell she was lying. She’d never been good at it anyway, and he’d seen more of her than most. Would he push, ask her to explain herself? Force her to divulge, once again, how sure she was that Andraste had been guiding her through flashes of insight and visions she could not understand? 

He looked as if he might, studying her closely. But instead, he murmured, “You should try to rest tonight. I realize that’s a tall order with what we’re looking to face tomorrow, but—”

“You’re right.” She turned, expression frozen in what she hoped was determination. “I think I’m going to lay down in my tent for a while. Get some rest.”

She felt Dorian’s gaze follow her like a beam of light, through the throngs of soldiers and scouts, of faces turning to watch her. All of them took on a gaunt, masked appearance, as if something sinister were hiding behind their curious eyes, their polite and hopeful smiles. The fortress seemed to double in size, making her slow retreat to her own feeble quarters seem to drag on forever. So many eyes followed her. Watched her. Waited. Ostagar had become a churning sea of hidden intent, and it made her want to tear it to the ground. She was screaming, and she couldn’t even open her mouth to let it out.

She waved off the sentry posted at the entrance to the tower where she had set up her tent, and ducked into the darkness. She needed to be alone. She needed to _think_. 

The canvas closed. The sounds of the fortress dimmed. 

Roslyn stared down at her cot, trying not to go to pieces. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness fast. Faster than normal. Another side effect of the wolf. She pulled off her amulet, set it beside the keystone, and watched as they both flickered in the darkness with a pearlescent white glow. The amulet was darker, the single thread of green marring the soft light, making the sparkle of colors shift ominously against the red fabric. 

The wolf watched her with a detached curiosity, offering nothing but its presence for comfort, and giving her no answers. If it understood what was happening to her, it did not seem willing to help. 

She should have explained to Dorian what must be happening. He would understand, surely. He’d experienced Alexius’s madness, same as her. He was one of the only people who probably _wouldn’t_ think she was losing her mind if she tried to explain. She shouldn’t have lied. Bottling this up and letting it burst from her in fits was inexcusable, and she couldn’t justify such negligence anymore. She was the Inquisitor. People looked to her for strength. What would they see if she was constantly fighting to keep herself whole instead of leading them? _Why_ had she just walked away? 

The answer rose up her throat like bile.

_You’re afraid of it being true._

If the keystone and her amulet were connected, if it was all connected, to her visions, to the winged woman, to _Andraste_ , then what did it mean? What else had been plucked from her mind without her knowledge? If she could not remember the Conclave…

What else had she forgotten?

_Remember_ , the winged woman had told her again and again. _You have to remember._

“What?” she muttered down at the stones, as if they might answer her aloud. “ _What_ am I supposed to fucking remember?”

The light from the stones did not grow, but the longer she stared, searching for some sign in the strange shift of color along the shimmering white surface, something began to swim up into the light. Some hidden answer in the thread of green which pulsed in the back of her mind and recognized her—echoing that long, howling dark she’d fallen through to come back from that nightmare world. And the more she stared into that darkness, the more she could see nothing else. The world grew silent, weighed down by something she couldn’t understand. Her chest burned. Her body felt small, and weak. The darkness grew solid, and slowly, ever so slowly, she felt it wrap loving claws around her heart. 

“Inquisitor?”

She blinked, jerked back a step, and nearly hit the center post of her tent. 

Inquisitor. The title felt for one horrible moment as if it belonged to someone else. 

Heart pounding in her throat, she called, “What?”

A pause. “Commander of the Ferelden forces, Arl Teagan, wants to speak to you.”

Her throat felt raw, as if she’d been screaming herself hoarse. How long had she been standing in her tent? How long had she been staring down at the keystone and the amulet? 

“I’ll be right out.” 

Tears burned down her cheeks, but she wiped them away, splashing frigid water onto her face from the wash basin set out for her that morning. The cold did little to shock her back to herself, but she would take all the help she could get. 

Not trusting herself or the stones, she put them back into their places around her neck and into her pouch. Her fingers brushed the leather case of blood vials there, and she jumped, as if she’d been shocked. She cursed herself, checking again that the keystone was secure, that the amulet was hidden beneath her tunic. She could not leave them behind, for some reason—afraid that if she stopped paying attention to them for even a moment, she would miss a sign that she was not going mad. That she was right to think there was something greater at work, and that these twin stones had something to do with it. 

She pulled on the mask of the Inquisitor, placing her fears in a locked box behind her heart, and left the darkness of her tent. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys have realized at this point that I'm basically trolling you with the songs I put at the top of each chapter. 
> 
> <3


	45. Shadows of Success

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["This Life" by Josef Salvat](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bmtK8JcwYTU&t=0s&index=47&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S)

Roslyn made it through the meeting with Arl Teagan, though she had the distinct feeling that the man disliked her. He certainly disapproved of her plan to use the eluvians to circumvent the Deep Roads, but he seemed content to follow her lead. That, or Alistair had told him to do whatever she wanted. Perhaps that was why the old man distrusted her. Her alliance with Ferelden was new, and the Inquisition had encroached on his own lands to make a place for themselves. 

She had, in a show of great restraint, refrained from throwing into his face the fact that he had allowed a Tevinter magister to enslave and abduct the entire Mage Rebellion and done nothing to help his starving people when the conflict had ravaged the Hinterlands. Josephine would have been proud. As it was, she didn’t rightly care what the old man thought of her. He would help, and she needed his men, all of whom seemed more than willing to aid the Inquisition. Rylen had told her that morning that more than a few of them might even be willing to join, if this went well. Even in the aftermath of the Fifth Blight, Grey Wardens were not trusted in Ferelden. Some were all too happy to drive them out once again.

The sun set slowly into the west. The shadows clinging to Ostagar grew long, obscured as they were by the rising mist coming up from the southern marshlands. Preparations to move out the following morning continued even as a storm rolled in from the east. Rain lashed against the old fortress, dousing the soldiers’ fires and spirits. But they carried on. 

_Bad sign for a battle_ , she thought, grimacing up at the sky from under her hood. Then again, perhaps she had no way of knowing what kind of signs could be good now.

Not after her conversation with Dorian. 

She schooled herself into focusing on her tasks, checking in with her captains, ensuring that Rylen had everyone prepared. They couldn’t afford to wait another day, not with the increase in tremors—stronger here, closer to the door the Wardens were trying to open. 

Her questions could be answered later, when the Grey Wardens had been dealt with, and she’d subdued Coryphea once again. She could remember whatever it was she was supposed to have forgotten…later. 

She was so focused on not letting her mind wander that she nearly smacked into Hawke when he appeared out of the mist before her. 

He caught her arm before she could fall, grinning. “Easy, Inquisitor. It’s not a good look to fall flat on your face in front of people who are supposed to be impressed by you. Trust me on this. I have personal experience.”

Roslyn pulled out of his grip, jerking her hood back down in a futile attempt to shield her face from the rain. She was already drenched. It wouldn’t matter much now. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize.” He shifted something in his grip, a long, dark-tinted bottle with a red stopper tucked under one arm. 

She smiled in spite of herself. “And who did you steal that from this time?”

“One of the Ferelden lords. Brought himself a bottle of Antivan Sip-Sip, if you’ll believe his gall. Poor bastard probably thought it would make him seem more manly to his squires. Of course, he passed out after one little taste, so I think the rest of his men thought it was poisoned. They’re currently debating whether or not to try waking him up.”

“ ‘Sip-Sip?’ What the fuck does that mean?”

Through the slanting rain, Roslyn saw Hawke smile, the kind of smile he’d tried on her when they first met, the kind of smile which looked rakish and dangerous even while soaked through with rain. “Oh, _big_ mistake, your holiness.” He took a few steps back, beckoning her ostentatiously with his free hand. “I must now ensure that you take not one, but _two_ sips from this bottle, or else I shall refuse to leave this broken down fortress in the morning and you will be down one esteemed Champion come tomorrow.”

Roslyn refrained from rolling her eyes. “You realize that might be preferable to some?”

“Stop lying. You’re terrible at it.” He flicked a tangled lock of hair from his face, looking more like a drowned cat than a fearsome warrior. Even so, she saw the appeal. “I am a maelstrom on a battlefield. You want no one but me guarding your rear, your very shapely, very buxom rear.”

She laughed. “Perhaps my buxom rear and I would rather go to sleep.”

His grin slipped somewhat as he studied her. “Really? You could sleep tonight, knowing what we’re going to face tomorrow? Or am I reading something else in your diamond-hard jaw and general disposition of murder and ‘touch me at your peril’?”

The sharp observation cut through her chest, killing her fleeting good humor. She held his gaze, trying to dismiss him. But her mouth would not open, and for whatever reason, she couldn’t deny the knowing look in his eyes. 

She wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight. For a number of reasons. Not the least of which was she could not explain to one of her dearest friends that he’d forgotten a confession that had nearly killed her to give. 

Hawke slung an arm around her shoulder, murmuring, “I know the look of impending doom when I see it. It was on my face enough times in Kirkwall that I could have painted it from memory, by the end.”

She shifted uneasily, but didn’t push him away. There was a comfort to his weight, to the feeling of physical contact with someone else, even if it was him. Her growing sense of disconnect, of being untethered and detached from all of this, had begun to claw at her. 

“I didn’t know you painted,” she muttered, unable to admit it out loud.

“I don’t. But I could, if I chose to. I would be a fabulous painter.”

“Of course you would. I’m sure you could do many things with a modicum of success, if you showed no one.”

He let her go, and she fought the urge to stay by his side. It was easier to forget the blank, pulsing space in the back of her head with someone else holding onto her. Easier to feel like a part of the physical, breathing world.

They skirted the upper ward courtyard, where Sera, Varric, and Dorian had found themselves seated under an awning, sheltered from the rain. They were playing some kind of card game with Rainier and a few other soldiers. They seemed to be having a decent time, drifts of laughter echoing over the quieting fortress, stealing moments of levity before they all threw themselves down into the earth to fight Maker knew what. 

Hawke looked at her sideways, seeing her tension. “I’m guessing you’re in need of some more intimate conversation than a fireside chat?”

Her jaw clenched. “I’m not having sex with you, Hawke.”

He laughed and leapt up a few steps leading to the path to the southern watchtower. “You’re the one who continues to bring that up. It sounds to me as if you are protesting too much, and you know what that means.”

“That I’m disgusted by the very thought?”

“That you are secretly in love with me and are pushing me away to protect yourself.”

Her lips pulled into the ghost of a smile, following him into an alcove where a statue might have once stood. The space was large, but empty. “I was wondering when you were going to figure that out. Woe is me for thinking I could withstand your charm.” Brushing off the gathered grime of centuries, she got up on the pedestal, pulling her legs to the side to make room for Hawke. Focusing on the magic, she conjured two white lights to dance in the small space over their heads, illuminating the broken remnants of white marble collected in the corners. 

It was strange, to think she could perform such simple magics now. For so long, she had only been able to destroy, or harm. With the wolf, and, if she were being truly honest, Isahn’s help, she’d begun to grow almost normal in her range of skills. 

If one discounted the anchor. Which she never could. 

Hawke grunted as he settled beside her, letting his legs hang akimbo. He shook his hair out like a dog, catching her with his excess water. “ _No one_ can resist my charm.”

“How ominous,” she mused, narrowing her eyes as Hawke took a relatively small sip from the bottle. “This isn’t boot polish, is it? I’ve spent enough time around Fereldens to know that you all like your little jokes.”

He scrunched up his face, as if he were trying hard not to sneeze, and shook his head. “This is not a joke,” he said roughly, wincing. “Not a good one, anyway. By the fucking Maker, I’d forgotten how good this shit is.”

“It looks painful.”

“It is.” He handed her the bottle with a grimace.

Carefully, she sniffed, eyes watering at the powerful smell. “If you try to kill me, Cassandra will skin you alive.”

Hawke merely grinned as she tipped the bottle back and took a long sip. 

If she had been secretly hoping for something to wipe her mind clear of amulets and lost memories and magic mirrors, this might just do it. 

The liquid tore through her throat with cold fire, lancing in shards down into her stomach. It steamed up through her nostrils, smacked the back of her head, sent a bolt of lightning through her blood. She choked, only just managing to hold onto the bottle as she tried not to spit the contents of her mouth out into the rain. 

“I have a friend who could tip an entire tumbler back of this without breaking a sweat,” Hawke mused as Roslyn coughed through the worst of the taste—acrid and smoky, like someone had bottled a campfire made from rotting wood. “Small slip of a thing, but she was a legend in the Hanged Man. Used to challenge the biggest mercenaries and sailors down at the docks for coin and jewels. They would see this little elven girl, laugh their silly heads off, and then proceed to get their asses handed to them.” He sighed, patting Roslyn’s back a few times. “Miss that little shit. Probably somewhere in Tevinter now with—”

“ _Andraste’s tits_ ,” Roslyn finally gasped. “Why the _fuck_ would you make me drink that?”

Hawke shrugged. “It’s about the best thing besides sex to get your mind off the crushing weight of being a _hero_.” He said the last with a drawn out waggle of his fingers.

She blinked as heat dripped down like running sap into her body, warming her limbs and mouth, leaving a faint, pleasant buzzing in her fingers. “All right,” she cleared her throat, “I see what you mean.”

“I shall limit you to two sips for tonight. Like you said, if you show up hungover to war tomorrow, your lovely seeker will snap me in twain over her knee.”

Roslyn grinned, watching him take another sip. They sat in silence for a time, listening to the pounding rain and the sounds of camp as it settled in on what might be the last night of their lives, for some of them. She had led them down to the brink of a fight they might not win. They were all her responsibility now, whatever happened.

“Stop that.”

She frowned in discomfort. “I was starting to wonder if blood mages really could read minds.”

“Ah,” he laughed, “yes, the whole subjugation and domination shtick.” He coughed a few times, setting the bottle between them. “I probably couldn’t do that to _you_ , even if I were so inclined. You’d be just as likely to break my mind if I tried to read yours. If that makes you feel any better.”

“It does, strangely.” She tucked her knees into her chest, letting her chin rest atop them. “Why do you use blood magic, by the way? Seems…unnecessary, to me. And just a bit past stupid.”

Hawke considered, scratching his beard. “I think that was the appeal, initially.” He smiled at her skepticism. “Truly. My father said it was the lowest a mage could go to subject himself to the will of a demon. No one was powerful enough to resist for long. The benefits didn’t outweigh the risks. Sign of a weak willed man. Of course, dear old dad was a filthy fucking hypocrite, but I suppose that doesn’t matter now.” He reached down to the side of his leg, withdrawing a small dagger. Without warning, he sliced himself across the back of his left hand. 

The wolf bristled, but she calmed it down. Whether it was the slight buzz from the Sip-Sip dulling her concern, or the growing confidence she felt in Hawke’s skill, she couldn’t bring herself to care. 

She’d performed blood magic herself, once. Who was she to judge anyone else for how they chose to live their life? It was powerful, clearly, and he had a good point as to his prowess on a field of battle. If he could handle himself, what did it matter?

Her mouth twitched at the thrill she felt. It was silly after all she’d been through, but the subtle repudiation of everything she’d been taught in her Circle was oddly freeing.

“It’s not about control, either,” he continued. The blood rose into the air, spiraling in a mesmerizing pattern of loops around his fingers. “I realize I’m in the minority here, but I could not give a rat’s ass about ultimate power or domination or whatever the Chantry tells us is a mage’s deepest, darkest desire and the only reason he would ever turn to a sin so foul. I know myself. I know my boundaries.”

“Makes sense to me.”

He shot her a bemused look. “Does it? Thought you were the Chantry’s bulldog. Do they know of your free-wheeling spirit?”

“I’m not the Chantry’s _anything_ ,” she muttered, swallowing her old frustration. She shrugged, trying to channel the certainty she’d felt standing before Leliana, asking for her aid in shifting the foundations of their world. “And even if I was, perhaps it’s time for the Chantry to change.”

His eyes went distant, the expression on his face growing sad, almost wistful. “You sound like someone I used to know.” Before she could reply, he flicked his fingers into the air, causing his blood to shiver and undulate before it froze into shards of red, brittle glass. 

It reminded her of the Avvar blood mage, and the severed dragon’s head.

“I tried, for a long time, to understand what the point was. All that religion and prayer and faith. It seemed like a mummer’s farce to me. I learned a long time ago that _this_ is the closest I’m ever going to get to faith.” He glanced at her with a grim smile. “You buy into it all though, don’t you? ‘Magic exists to serve man.’ I mean you must—you’re the Herald of Andraste.”

She worked past the knot in her throat, looking out over the rain-shrouded fortress. “I don’t know what I believe.”

_Liar._

“Did she not tell you, then?”

Roslyn frowned. 

“Coryphea? About the empty seat of the Maker?”

She met his eyes, fighting the lance of tension that raced down her spine. 

“Yes,” Hawke mused, “I noticed that no one else seemed too concerned with that little observance. You didn’t tell any of your council. Would have been a bit more of an uproar, I think. It’s all right. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“She might be lying.”

Hawke shrugged. “She might be, but I don’t think she would. Not about this. Coryphea seems like the kind of woman who wouldn’t say anything until she knew it was absolutely true. Her variety of pride and arrogance isn’t empty threats.”

“So if the Maker’s not real, how does you doing blood magic get your religious rocks off?”

He took a moment, as if deciding whether or not he could trust her. The blood fell at last, reverting to liquid and sliding off his leather pants and onto the floor, pooling with the rain collecting in their little, hidden alcove. 

“I read a book once by Brother Genitivi,” he rubbed his fingers together and the cut sealed with a brush of sweet magic, “where he likened the feeling of stepping into the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux to having one’s vision brightened with the eternal light of the Maker. He wrote that before that moment, he had never felt sure of his place in the world, that he was, after all his research and study, a small, insignificant thread in the beautiful fabric of time—or some fanciful bullshit along those lines.”

He snorted. “Now, I have never been to Val Royeaux and I have not seen the Grand Cathedral, but I spent more time than I’d care to admit in the Kirkwall chantry. Before it exploded, obviously. It was gorgeous. It had these towering stained glass windows, big golden statue of Andraste lit up with hundreds of candles and polished to shine with the sun no matter the time of day. Music was always drifting from one of the rooms, and the smell of that incense would have, in someone else, probably invoked a great sense of awe and wonder.” 

He ran a hand through his dripping hair, pushing it back from his forehead. The shadows under his eyes grew sharp in the faint white light, making the brown of his irises look reddish black. “Never thought it was anything more than a gaudy building, built to remind people that someone with a shit ton of money and aspirations to power had set up shop on the highest hill in Kirkwall to look down on the dirty rabble. Religion does nothing for me. This,” he held up his hand, and the swell of his aura washed over her—rust and velvet, the breathy, sad laugh of someone in pain trying to hide himself away, “is the closest to the Maker’s influence I’ve ever felt.”

It took her a moment to find her voice, staring out at the rain. 

Is that what she’d felt kneeling in front of Andraste’s statue all those years? Awe? She had certainly felt small in the presence of the winged woman. And there had been a piece, a thread, a brilliant spark of light in a snow storm that had given her a sense of eternity. 

She still felt it sometimes. When she let herself believe in a higher power who had chosen someone as broken and battered as her. 

But it could just as likely be fear. Fear and awe had walked hand and hand in her mind since she was a child. Since she had crept along corridors trying to be silent as a mouse, since she had seen the boy she loved replaced by an empty shell and she had been thrown to wolves of her own making forged of rage. 

Fear was not faith. But faith was terrifying. Picking the two apart was like trying to find a grain of rice in a mountain of sand—the more she looked for her faith, the more she tried to name it and keep it, to build it up around her like armor, like she thought Cassandra might wear it gleaming and shining, the more the sands shifted around her. The further it slipped from her grasp. 

“You never felt like you were chosen,” she said at last. It wasn’t a question, but she couldn’t help but wonder. 

Was she alone in wanting a place not handed to her by chance? A place she had won, eventually, but was, initially, nothing more than a temporary cage, an inconvenient reprieve. Or was that claiming more credit than she was owed, and more significance? 

“Chosen for what?” he asked, voice hard. “Chosen to watch everyone I’d ever loved die or leave me? Chosen to watch the city I’d broken myself to save time and time again go up in flames?” He snorted. “Fuck, I hope not.”

“It wouldn’t make things easier? Knowing that the Maker had some plan for you, that you were meant for more?”

_That I was meant for more?_

Hawke shifted, leaning forward to catch her gaze. “If it helps _you_ , that’s marvelous. Truly, I’m happy for you. But I for one would go mad if I thought that I had no choice in my own future. Would it be easier to be mad? Yes. Unequivocally.” His face turned pensive, solemnity making him look older than he was. “But I can’t justify that level of forgiveness for the things I’ve done and the things I could not stop. It’d be too easy to let myself off the hook.”

Silence filled the space between them, making the warmth in Roslyn’s stomach curdle. She took another sip of the alcohol, grimacing as it rolled down her throat and made the edges of the world soften. 

He was right. It was easier. 

Perhaps that was why she wanted it so badly to be true.

“You friends will tell you it’s not your fault,” Hawke murmured, his voice rough, a low rumble beside her. “That you’re just one person in the end and you can’t take on the burden of saving the world on your own. For me, it was Kirkwall. I was just one man. Rationally, I can understand how ridiculous it is to feel guilty for what happened to an entire city of people, but that doesn’t matter.” 

She looked at him, seeing the weight pull down his shoulders, the pain lingering in his weathered, handsome face, the weariness in his scarred hands. He wasn’t much older than her, only in his mid-thirties, perhaps. He was so full of life, usually—only in the quiet moments did she see the fractures clear in his facade of confidence. 

He straightened, facing the growing storm outside their alcove with a grim, learned defiance. “In the end, it’s you. It will only ever be you.” His mouth twitched, but it didn’t banish the ghosts from his eyes. “Thought I’d convinced myself otherwise while I was on the run. Being back in the chaos with you… It’s reminded me why I gave a damn in the first place. Why I started fighting all those years ago. I’d forgotten. I’d made myself into a victim and played the role so well I wonder if I missed my calling as an actor.”

He shook his head, sighing. “And then I tumbled into your life only to find that you not only seem to wear the mantle well, but actually make me _want_ to help you. I had every intention of leaving, you know, after I’d spilled my secrets and done my due diligence. I was going to steal your best horse and a few flashy valuables and ride off into into the wilderness to live my best life as a vagabond and a tramp. But you had to go and make me like you.” His voice softened. “I’ll never forgive you for that.”

Roslyn forced herself to look away, to face what he was saying, and to accept it. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Turning your back on the world only works if you actually don’t care.” He gave her a small smile. “I have a feeling that both of us suffer from an overabundance of giving a shit. I would have found myself on the bad end of a noble cause one day. All things considered, I’m happy it was yours.”

Her eyes burned, and she swallowed the tightness in her throat. “I’m glad you’re here, Hawke. Not only because you make me look rather capable by comparison.”

“Steady on,” he said softly, teasing, draping a hand over her hunched shoulders and tugging her in for a hug. “I think that’s the first time in nearly five years that anyone has expressed their gratitude for my presence. Usually it’s a lot of screaming or knife throwing.”

She laughed, sinking into the hug. A strange, foreign feeling of calm settled in her heart, and she wondered for the first time in her life if this was what it felt like to have family. Derek was, and had only ever been, a dear friend. He knew her intimately, better than anyone else, once upon a time. But she had always known that one day he would leave to find his real family, the one which didn’t involve fighting or dying or running head first into danger, and she would have to find someone else. She’d always held him at a distance. 

Why she felt safe with _Hawke_ , of all the strange people in the world, she had no idea.

“It does help to have people you trust around you,” he murmured. “Or, if you can’t find anyone trustworthy, people who are attractive and funny. Never underestimate the benefits of laughter in the face of certain death.”

She nodded. “I’ll work on finding reasonably beautiful and charming people to surround me.” At a thought, she added, “Did you ever…you know—for all your talk of finding willing partners to fuck, was there ever someone who was more, for you?”

She tried not to think too directly of Solas, but like in all things, he swam to the center of her mind.

Hawke took a long time to answer, dropping his arm only to play with his knife. His posture was tense, awkward, strange enough to make her take notice. “I…did, actually. You read Varric’s book, right?”

“More times than I can count.” He looked at her with a frown, and she continued, “Don’t get too excited, but I thought you were rather impressive back in the day. Before I actually met you, of course. What happened in Kirkwall changed my life, for the better.”

The muscle in his jaw feathered. “Well that’s…something, I guess.” He flipped the knife slowly over his fingers, with a surprising amount of grace and skill. “You’ll have idolized Anders too, then.”

She nodded slowly. 

He nodded as well, as if he were working up to whatever he had to say. “When Varric told me he was writing a book about everything that had happened, I asked him for two favors. One, that he leave Bethany out of it. At the time, I thought she wanted nothing to do with me, and I didn’t want her to deal with the fallout of being the Champion’s sister. Carver was isolated with the Grey Wardens and would have gotten mad if he thought I was trying to protect him, but she was a Circle mage living in a city where I had just shat all over the Chantry. Her life would be easier if I just went away. Or that’s what I thought. Turns out I was…incorrect. Fool girl still likes me, for some reason.”

“Two,” he hesitated, sliding his knife back into its sheath, “that he downplay my relationship with the man who blew up the Chantry. We became friends, accomplices, associates—brothers in arms was one way he described us, I think. Varric has a nasty habit of romanticizing anything and everything. All of that was fine. No one would buy that we didn’t know each other. Not in Kirkwall, at least. And it’s not like he could be written out of the story, with…what happened. But the truth, that we were lovers…” 

He let out a laugh, breaking with a hint of raw, ragged pain. “Fuck, I may be a coward, but I couldn’t have the rest of the world ruining what we had. I was already a spectacle, my family’s lives ruined by my mistakes. I had to keep something for myself. Even if it was just the memory.”

Roslyn watched him, hearing the regret in his voice, the heartache. “He’s gone, then?”

No one had heard from the elusive Anders, not since the fight for the Gallows. He had left Kirkwall burning and ravaged, and vanished. Roslyn had always thought it was a good idea. After Hawke, he was the most infamous man in all of Thedas. Better for him to run, than to be used as a weapon against the mages he’d worked so hard to uplift. 

Hawke smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Oh yes, long gone. I sent him away, you see. Maker, I was mad. So fucking mad. I can’t remember being more angry at anyone, not even Carver. Another little bit of insider information—I had no clue what Anders was going to do. Can you imagine,” he laughed darkly, “sharing someone’s bed for the better part of four years and not knowing they were planning to commit mass murder? Bastard wasn’t even a good liar.”

“Would you have stopped him?” she asked when Hawke didn’t continue. “If you’d known?”

Her life had been changed by one man’s decision. Knowing that it had been so precarious shook her to her core. 

He looked at her, bushy, dark brows creased in doubt. “Probably. I would have been wrong, but I could never have gone through with it, if I had known. That’s why he didn’t tell me. I was too soft to do what was necessary to change the world.”

“It’s not soft to stop the murder of hundreds of people,” she murmured, even as she wondered if he wasn’t right after all. 

Killing the Grand Cleric had tipped the balance in Thedas. Without the uprising at the Gallows, without the Rebellion forming, she would have remained in her Circle, living out her life in a cage, all the while screaming on the inside. 

Because, when it came down to it, she didn’t know if she would have had the strength to do the same. Without the templars taking steps to calm the rebellion brewing in Aiden’s Tower, she wouldn’t have fought to protect her fellow mages. She would not have made it to Cumberland. She would not have met Fiona, and seen the world as it could be—a world free from barred towers and fear.

“That’s the real question, isn’t it?” Hawke patted her on the knee. “Are the deaths of a few hundred people worth the freedom of a few thousand others? I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about it and I’ve never been able to make that choice. Burning down one world to make the next better? I can understand the argument, and I can even agree that it was necessary, that everything that came after was worth it, but…” He exhaled slowly. “I was good at fighting, and surviving. I was _damn_ good at being the person other people liked to watch make a scene, and hold up as a warning, or a beacon. Sometimes, I even thought I was making a difference, in my small, silly way. But I could never change the world.”

He slid off the bench, cracking his neck as he snatched up the bottle and took another long pull. “I will leave that,” he said, coughing, “to the real heroes.” A wide, shit-eating grin stretched over his lips, and he gave her a wink—his sadness and grief tucked away in less time than it took for her to frown. 

Something tugged at her chest, admiration and pity warring with each other as she tried to think of what to say. That he was mad for thinking her anything like a hero, that he was wrong about himself. That he was making a difference even now. “Hawke—”

“No, no,” he said, planting a surprisingly chaste kiss to her cheek, “this conversation has been far too emotional as it is. I will not allow you to start consoling me. I’m a big boy. I know who I am.” 

He let a handful of water collect in his palm and smoothed it over his face, shaking himself. “Now I must go find my idiot brother and try to convince him to stay here tomorrow when we march. Bethany will be livid as it is. I have to at least try to keep him from the fighting so I can sit there with a clean conscience while she berates me.”

“I could order him to be restrained.”

Hawke barked a laugh. “As much as I would love that, our relationship is strained enough as it is. No, he’ll fight tomorrow. And I will never let him out of my sight again. Not until he sees Bethany, and she can tell us both how idiotic we are.” A hopeful light kindled in his eyes. “I’m actually looking forward to it.”

He pulled his hood up and stepped out into the rain. “For what it’s worth, Roslyn, love,” he said with a last, lingering look, “I do think you’re the real thing.” His smile slipped, a knowing sadness pulling at the edges of his eyes. “And for that, I’m truly sorry.”

Roslyn watched him disappear into the rain. His words slipped in and out of her mind, catching and holding. 

The real thing. 

Was she?

The amulet seemed to flicker against her chest. The fortress hummed with a layer of intent she’d been fighting for the better part of the day. 

A real hero. 

The idea seemed ludicrous, and yet…wasn’t she supposing the same thing by being the Inquisitor? By going to Leliana, by trying to change the minds of Thedas one mage at a time? 

Hadn’t she stepped between Iwan and the surveyor who had abused him simply because of the points of his ears?

She didn’t feel her eyelids grow heavy, didn’t feel the telltale weight rise up in the back of her mind, before she leaned her head against the side of the alcove, and fell into a vision. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *puts on glasses, clears throat, pulls down slide* Now in this presentation I will outline all the reasons why Garrett Hawke is precious and wonderful and will definitely not go through any more pain in his life--


	46. His Talisman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["The Veil of Time" by Bear McCreary](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6l-Imip6VxU&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&index=49&t=0s) | ["Verð Mín" by Eivør](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hwSWcLRoy-U&index=48&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&t=0s)

Roslyn opened her eyes to a grey and formless mist. She waited, riding out the small amount of panic she felt at not awaking to the true Fade she’d grown accustomed to over the past year. Now that she knew, and was ready for, the difference, it was intriguing to feel the world settle around her. Like the first distant rumble of thunder across a dark, forgotten horizon, the smell of lightning and rain curling gently through the wind.

Slowly, the shape of a long, winding plain stretched out before her. Large hills dotted by the lights of thousands of fires broke the darkness. Not the swaying march of torches, but hearths, camps. Clustered around each one was a group of warriors, hunched and huddled against the cold. Snow gripped the earth, anchored the tents, blanketed the ground with an unnatural quiet.

She looked upon a shallowed world filled with soldiers, and some part of her recognized it, even if she could not think of its name. Thousands of warriors were gathered here. An army.

One solitary hill rose up at the edge of the vast camp, watched over by the southern moon, but not the moon she had known all her life. 

It was large, so large it cast everything in a bright, white glow. Its craters and shadows seemed to have been cut with purple and navy, carved out of the grey rock and accentuated with a painter’s intricate touch. It looked as if it were going to crash down upon the earth it was so close, but the warriors around their campfires did not look up in fear or alarm. They did not look up at all, save to watch a drift of cloud, or to point at a star. 

The stars were different as well. She’d grown used to looking for her constellations after she’d left Ostwick, searching an unfamiliar sky for the telltale blade of Judex, or the tail of Draconis. The few she could see looked…strange, as if someone had drawn out their edges with a needle. Made them chaotic, and sharp. Frayed around the edges. The rest…

With growing horror, she counted only five stars set into the thick, black sky. She only had enough time to wonder if the moon had obscured the rest, when one sputtered, and then winked out. 

Dread cracked down her spine like a broken egg, seeping into her skin with an awful, almost mundane horror. She waited, staring at the spot where the star had been only seconds before. Perhaps a cloud, or a bird had flown across it. 

But the longer she stared at that blank, horrible space, at the darkness which seemed to grow closer, she knew that that light was never coming back. 

A loud shout broke the silence. Behind her, at the other end of the line of fires, approached a procession. 

Roslyn swallowed her dread and frowned, moving through the amassing crowds to see more clearly. This was a vision, and dying stars or no, she knew there was something more important to see, something she could not miss even if she wished to. The warriors around her—hardened and fierce, looking as if they’d been fighting for a long enough time to win the lines in their faces along with their scars—stared down the gentle valley with wide, excited eyes. They looked like children, nudging each other, hushing the ones who cried out. A deeper silence fell across the valley, but it was not thick, nor oppressive. It was hopeful. 

And then the crowd parted, and Roslyn saw the source of their interest. 

A woman decked in a golden mantle, with long, expansive blonde hair, lead the procession. On her back was strapped a great shield, on her pale white brow sat a coronet with a single, shining point. She was tall, and held her dirtied face upright. She did not smile, but her eyes sparkled silver in the moonlight. 

Roslyn stared, watched the woman walk toward her, and dared not to blink. 

Four years ago, in 9:38 Dragon, after Fiona had survived the attempt on her life in Val Royeaux and she had fled to Andoral’s Reach to gather the remnants of the Circle and declare it disbanded once and for all, she had shown Roslyn a manuscript. One of the few Divine Justinia had given to the enchanters, it was a newly released version of the Chant of Light, with gorgeous illustrations and gilded bookplates. It was finer than anything she’d seen in her Circle, as she hadn’t spent much time with the rare or treasured manuscripts. Aiden’s Tower had been too far removed from civilization to see much in the way of scholarship or expensive research. 

Roslyn had poured over it when she’d found the time, reading again and again the dissonant chapters she’d only heard rumors about, drinking in the shining script, the careful, methodical hand which had crafted each and every page. She had committed to memory every new line, every depiction of the Prophet and those who had lived with her, fought with her, betrayed her. 

Standing in this dream that was not a dream, under the light of an unfamiliar night sky, she felt as if those illustrations had come to life. 

“This can’t be real,” she whispered aloud to herself, stepping back from the approaching woman, forcing herself to blink, to think rationally. Her mind might simply be creating the image from her memory, or maybe this was a dream, and a spirit of desire had reached deep down into the recesses of her heart to conjure up the one thing Roslyn wanted more than anything else. “She can’t be…” She _couldn’t_ be…

But the truth rose in her chest—the unavoidable, impossible truth. 

The woman was Andraste. 

And Roslyn was standing right in front of her. 

Her eyes could not move from the woman—hair trailing in a thick, unbraided mass to her waist, dirtied, matted, and splashed with what looked like dried blood, but _shining_ nonetheless, her eyes a bright, reflective grey, looking silver as her gaze swept like a beam of light across the adoring crowds, her strong, square chin, proud and tipped back in a show of strength that seemed to ripple into the air around her—but she did notice the others following behind. 

A man, hulking and massive, with traditional Avvar paint in white and black slashed across his bare, corded arms. He wore thick black fur around his neck, and his eyes were almost black under his coiled mass of brown hair. Bone beads glinted in amongst the iron rings, like pretty rocks stashed by a jealous magpie. He kept his eyes always on those closest to Andraste, his gaze hooded and angry if anyone got too close. 

_Maferath_ , her mind supplied despite her best attempts to stop it. It had to be him. Who else would stand so close to the Prophet? Who else would keep one hand on his large, wicked-looking blade at all times?

Behind him trailed more heavy-set and barrel-chested warriors, all of them decked in striped clay of white and black. They looked like grim shadows trailing after Andraste, menacing and ferocious. Roslyn could see why the Imperium might fall before them.

To Andraste’s left, however, a slighter figure followed. They kept their distance, seeming to remain in her shadow as she walked through the crowds. Indeed, everyone behind them seemed to walk in the shadows of their larger companions. 

Though the figure behind Andraste was hooded, Roslyn could clearly see the pointed tips of the others’ ears, their reflective eyes. 

Elves. 

Which could only mean that the figure beside Andraste, walking close, but just behind Maferath, with their bright green eyes never leaving the back of her head, was Shartan. 

In that moment, seeing the trail of elves behind the Prophet herself, seeing Shartan on her left side, upfront and visible, in a position of honor and respect, Roslyn no longer cared if she was going mad. 

If it was madness, or divine favor, or something else she could not name, she didn’t care. She wanted it to be true. More than she had ever wanted anything in her life. 

And so it was.

Her eyes welled with tears as she watched, falling in line with Shartan as Andraste moved through the valley, drawing each and every warrior from their fire, pulling the masses behind her into the warp and weft of her procession. She was a single mote of light brighter than all the other fires combined, brighter than the moon overhead, the feeble, fleeting stars. Perhaps then the moon was heavy with the Maker’s attention, to pull so eagerly at the firmament, to be nearer His Bride. Why else would it hang so low in the sky?

The light shone on the polished steel of the Alamarri warriors, on their armor, on their beads, on their bands of brass and bronze. More colors shone through the crowd, some painted with blue and yellow, or deepest red and fresh, mint green. But white and black were most numerous. Andraste’s tribe, then. 

_Sweet Maker_ , Roslyn thought as she looked behind her once to see the mass of people. There had to be tens of thousands, perhaps even hundreds of thousands of warriors. It was more people than she had ever before seen. More than the Inquisition, more than the Rebellion. So many people sitting, waiting, following. 

Though she watched Andraste most, searched her every movement for signs that this was real, that she could not have imagined so rich a vision, her eyes fell on Shartan from time to time. 

He cut a slight figure, draped in a thin black cloak. The only proof that he was not a hooded demon was his glowing green eyes. He took care to keep his face hidden, his hands beneath the folds of his cloak. His feet were bare, however, and she saw that they were coated in grime and—again, she saw with a flash of intuition—blood. 

Had Andraste and Shartan just returned from a battle? Was this the famed moment Shartan had joined his forces with hers and drove back the Imperium?

It was almost too much for her to understand, that she walked beside a hero out of legend, that she was close enough to the Prophet that she might reach out and touch her. 

Would it feel real? Or would her hand pass through her form like smoke and reveal it all for the illusion it was?

The thought did not hold, however, as Roslyn waited for the revelation of the white crystal. 

If she saw the white crystal, if its presence proved that this vision was not simply a dream, but connected to all the others, it would mean it was real. 

She didn’t even care about the silence of her aura, the oppressive weight of this unreal world. She might feel like an inert facsimile of herself, without her aura or the wolf to walk beside her, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. 

They walked for what felt like hours, traveling the full length of the valley, to the foot of the high hill. A half ring of standing stones had been placed around a wide center table stone. Her heart leapt as she saw Andraste approach it, brush her blood-stained fingers across the runes carved into the surface. 

Almost timidly, she held out a hand, and Maferath took it, helped her up to stand on the stone. In a brief, intimate moment, she cupped the hard man’s face, and his features softened. The warrior vanished, the heavy jealousy in his shoulders leeched away, and he was simply a man, staring up with utter devotion at his wife. 

Roslyn watched it with conflict. This was the man who had betrayed Andraste. Who had handed her over to Archon Hessarian in exchange for power. Whose envy had led to the ritual murder of his wife. It was his fault, in the end, that the Maker had turned his gaze from them all. 

But here, he was just a man. A small man, though he loomed large. A man who clearly loved his wife. 

She didn’t know how to accept that. 

Andraste straightened, shooing Maferath away with an easy flick of her long wrist. She rolled her shoulders back under her heavy mantle, revealing a shirt of chainmail. Slowly, as if this were a performance well rehearsed, she pulled off her cloak of thick white fur, letting it fall to the ground. She shrugged off her golden mantle, not flinching as it hit the side of the table stone with a sharp ring. Piece by piece, she discarded her armor, until she wore only a white gown embroidered with simple grey thread, its ends soaked with dirt and blood, patched with pieces of tan string and unbleached cotton. Still, she looked larger than life—tall, broad, with a full, strong figure. A warrior. 

_A warrior_ , a voice echoed in the back of Roslyn’s mind, a mote of something fierce dragging light down into her chest. 

And then Andraste straightened, free of any armor or adornment save the pointed coronet nestled in the tangles of her wild hair—and her full, rounded stomach was revealed. 

The sight did not seem to surprise anyone else, but Roslyn felt as if she had been pierced through with fire. 

She was pregnant. 

Andraste, her idol, her savior, the figure she had looked to all her long, painful life, was carrying a _child_.

Roslyn’s mind spun with the knowledge. She knew that Andraste had given birth to two daughters who had been lost to memory, but seeing it herself revealed from under a layer of armor, awoke something soft and fragile within her. Something painful, that she’d never quite voiced for herself. 

Andraste raised her hands, and the silence went taut. It rushed out from her in a wave, spreading across the valley like a low-lying bank of cloud.

And when she spoke, her voice rang like the tolling of a deep, resonant bell. 

The words, foreign, unintelligible, but _familiar_ , hit Roslyn like a sharp wind. She nearly stumbled back from the shock. The Prophet spoke, and Roslyn strained to understand. The words shaped themselves in rounded, lyrical notes, half-singing, half-recitation. They carried over the valley, and Roslyn could almost feel them being immortalized as she heard them. 

Andraste did not speak for long, but Roslyn knew that no matter how long she spoke, it would never feel like enough. Only when she seemed to be closing, when her voice drifted up into a haunting melody—a _chant_ —did Roslyn see the tremble in her hands. The small shifting of her bare feet on the table stone. 

In the shadow of the moon, she could see only Andraste’s illuminated outline, the halo of her blonde hair, the gauzy, translucent edges of her white gown, but there was something strained about her expression. Something hard and strong, yes, but tired. 

Andraste dropped her hands, and the crowd erupted into a deafening cheer. 

Roslyn had the jarring realization that it sounded exactly the same as the crowd in Skyhold, when she had become Inquisitor. 

The noise continued, drifts of song interspersed with cheering and shouts of violent celebration. As if the entire valley had been waiting for Andraste to return and allow them once again to rejoice. 

Andraste allowed Maferath to hoist her down. It happened so fast, Roslyn nearly missed it, but an expression of pain flashed across Andraste’s face. Her long hands tightened over Maferath’s arm, going bone white for a moment. Her body tensed, and then relaxed.

Maferath bent his head to ask her something, but she shook her head, stepping away from him and turning to the others who were clustered close by. Her eyes fell on the hooded figure of Shartan, and she asked something in her low, resonant voice. He moved forward, and Roslyn caught the flicker of anger in Maferath’s eyes as she took the elf’s hand. Slowly, they moved together through the stone circle, and began to climb a small path up the hill. 

Roslyn hesitated, unable to look away from the looming man with the dark anger on his face, knowing what would come, and what he would do. 

If this was truly a vision of the past, she could do nothing.

Andraste and Shartan moved up the path, passing stones carved with motifs of animals and runes. With a start, Roslyn saw that the dirt around some of the stones was freshly disturbed, as if they had only just been placed here. More than a few depicted a bear. Roslyn began to look for an image of a woman antlered in white, like the murals painted in Calenhad’s Foothold, but her focus was bent on the pair walking slowly in front of her.

Curiously, Andraste seemed to be the same height as Shartan. It was odd, as the woman stood even taller than Roslyn. Had the other elves been tall as well? It would have been stranger, had she not grown used to Solas and Isahn, but it still…troubled her, for some reason. 

They were silent until they reached a small landing, a break in the steady, curving path around the hill. Out of sight from the valley below, Andraste murmured something, and Shartan guided her over to a bench. 

Once she was seated, her strength seemed to ebb. In less time than it took for Roslyn to blink, she transformed into a normal, simple woman. A tired woman, who shook and coughed. The mantle of the warrior prophet who had addressed her warriors and sang to them of war slid away. 

It was harder now to see her resemblance to the winged woman. The burning black eyes and silver hair seemed incongruous compared to this woman, instead revealing someone who looked…frail. Someone who was no larger than a passing stranger hunched over on the side of the road.

Shartan took off his cloak and draped it around her shoulders, revealing a shaved head covered in vining, interlaced tattoos. She thought they might be blue, or black, but it was hard to tell in the dim light. He spoke, and it was not the voice she’d expected. Rough, but lilting with a strangely familiar accent, he seemed to be…teasing Andraste. The voice toyed at something in the back of her mind, but the thought left just as quickly. 

Andraste smiled, wiped her hand across her mouth, leaving a dark line of blood trailing down her chin. 

Shartan shook his head, shifting nearer, and took her chin in his hand. It was not the impersonal touch of a friend, or an associate. It was delicate and soft, his long fingers pushing back her matted hair so he could see her face more clearly. It was intimate.

Roslyn watched it all in mute surprise, as Andraste leaned into his touch, and nodded. 

Though her aura did not rise to meet it, Roslyn felt the spark and flare of magic—sweet, humming, rusted and worn. 

Shartan was performing blood magic. 

Color blossomed in Andraste’s cheeks and she closed her eyes, sighing in relief. Shartan murmured, so softly Roslyn could barely hear the sound over the slight breeze and shift of wind over snow-choked grass. 

A moment passed. Something seemed to shift in Shartan’s demeanor, and he pulled back, dropping his hand. He stood, turned his back to Andraste, and as he faced Roslyn, she saw an expression of conflict slide over his long, elegant features. Guilt in his bright green eyes. 

Over his shoulder, Andraste watched him with a knowing regret, and began to stand, bracing herself against the bench as she let the cloak fall from her shoulders. She cradled her stomach, wincing as she came slowly to her feet. 

Shartan chided her at once, but she waved him off. There was no anger in her face, and even the regret seemed to wipe clean as she met his gaze. Serenity shone in her dark grey eyes, and she turned her face to the top of the hill, as if she heard a voice calling for her. 

Shartan made a small noise of disapproval, but Andraste ignored him, and began to walk forward. 

The elf watched her, jaw clenched, eyes hard and torn. He slid his hands into the pockets of his cloak in a strangely familiar gesture, and seemed to rock forward, leaning ever so slightly toward Andraste as she climbed farther and farther away. 

Roslyn was caught between the two figures, part of her frozen in the anguish etched into Shartan’s face, the utter conflict writ in his bright green eyes—and the slowly ascending Prophet. 

Shartan called something then, causing Andraste to stop and look back down at him. Some of her distance faded, and the woman shone through her face once more. She tilted her head, smiling only with her dark eyes. Her response was short, playful—a gentle admonition, maybe. 

Shartan’s smile was quick, but forced, the whites of his teeth showing amidst the blue crosshatch of tattoos over his mouth. 

And when he spoke, Roslyn froze in recognition. 

“ _Ma nuvenin, vhenan. Sa’vunin_.”

He spoke Elven. 

She didn’t understand it beyond a faint confidence that she could place _nuvenin_ as ‘wish,’ but she recognized _vhenan._

Solas had called her that in the closet in Keep Hargrave. And now that she heard it in someone else’s voice, spoken with a similar tension, as if the speaking of it was precious, a gift given, or received, she wondered what it might mean. 

Andraste’s head cocked, a small pursing of her lips as she watched Shartan turn and retreat back down the hill. 

There was love between them. Roslyn knew that, somehow. In the way they both seemed to wait and watch, to orient themselves around one another. What did it mean, that Andraste, Bride of the Maker, Prophet of the Chantry, had loved an elf?

That the woman she had crafted her life around loved an elf?

Did it mean anything? Or was Roslyn caught between them because she was looking for something that wasn’t there?

Andraste turned and began again to climb up the path. 

For a moment, Roslyn wanted to follow Shartan, to learn more of him, to see how he fit into the wider weaving of a time which had shaped the world she now lived in—to see all those elves in a place of honor amongst the Avvar, before the Dales and what came after. 

But she could not let Andraste leave. Not when she still had to know what it meant that she was here, and seeing this…vision, this memory which did not belong to her. 

So she turned from the lithe figure retreating down the mountain, and caught up with Andraste. 

_That’s a damn strange thought_. 

A strange sensation rose over the back of her neck. As if she were watching herself ascend this hill behind the woman dressed only in a white shift stained with blood. She didn’t know why they were climbing, or what they would find at the top, but she found herself memorizing every shift of the Prophet’s back, every straining expression, every scuff of her feet and labored breath. 

The more she watched, the more she wanted to help the woman. Why had she sent Shartan away? Why had she come up here at all? 

The moon loomed over them both, and as they rounded the last bend in the path, opening out into a flattened field at the top of the hill, Roslyn had to stop. 

It was not the same view she’d seen atop that Tevinter tower, but it was close enough that it made her stomach twist. The rolling fields were covered in snow, gentle where the vast plains of grass had been severe. There was no city in the distance, unaware that its doom was fast approaching on black drifts of smoke. There was no tower built to syphon the energy of the living Fade and twist it into some dark ritual. 

There was no dragon cry, and there was no winged woman. 

But Roslyn grew afraid just the same. 

In her shock at recognizing Andraste, she hadn’t stopped to wonder what she might see. Two out of three of her visions had ended in death. Though she knew that Andraste would die lashed to a pyre, watched by the husband who had betrayed her, Roslyn couldn’t help but wonder…

There was something of affection between Shartan and Andraste. What else was different? What else had been lost in the millennium since this moment? Or worse, what had been hidden?

What else had the Chantry changed to fit their own narrative? 

That, more than anything, made her stomach churn with half-realized anger.

Roslyn stood between two standing stones, watching the Prophet make her way slowly to the center of the field. There was nothing between the moon and the hill now, so close she might reach up and touch it. Drifts of snow danced over the sparse grass like mist over a moor, and she could not move. 

She could not move as Andraste knelt, hunching over as she clutched at her stomach. She could not move as she heard a sharp, pained inhale. She could not move as Andraste straightened, raising her face up to the moon to let it wash her pale skin white and turn her eyes a bright, shining silver. 

Silver, not black.

The more she tried to impose the image of the winged woman atop Andraste, the more it seemed to shy from her attempts. As if there was something fundamentally opposed. 

But there was _something_ —there had to be. 

Roslyn could not move as she saw her reach for a chain resting round her neck, and as she watched Andraste, the Prophet, the Bride of the Maker, her hero and idol, pull out a roughly set white opal, she could not breathe. 

The moment stretched, and froze, and shattered all at once—a great roaring tide starting at the base of her stomach and reaching up into the vast echoes of her mind. Like a climax, or the breath before overwhelming realization when one could see the blood and feel the cut, and was waiting for the inevitable pain. 

As if by standing on this mountain in the middle of a dream that was not a dream, she could see the memory form as it happened. 

Andraste kneeling in the illumination of the moon, bent over her white crystal, lips moving in a silent, urgent chant, a song, simpler than the one she had sung for her people—just as Roslyn had knelt before the white marble statue in her childhood, clutching a small, flickering candle. 

But the candle and the white crystal became one, and a piercing echo resounded in the hollow of her chest. And it was not safe. It was not comforting. Every moment Roslyn had spent reciting the Chant—grasping at a calm which did not belong to her and a silence which was no longer friend but foe—shifted, doubled, broke, and reformed in the same breath. 

And the star inside her chest contracted. 

Roslyn’s knees buckled. She threw her hands out to catch herself before she could fall. Her left palm brushed the standing stone. And the anchor answered. 

Green light broke the scene before her into a thousand refractions of the same image. The moon rippled, revealed for the reflection it was, as if she’d thrown a rock into the black surface of an endless sea. Andraste’s form burst forth in a shower of silver fire. Twin arcs of light behind her shoulders.

The Fade rushed into Roslyn’s mind, bringing the wolf and her aura, and the sweet familiarity of something she knew now as intimately as her own body. 

In the moment before the vision broke, before the wolf and the world dragged her back to reality, she watched wings unfurl from the back of Andraste’s hunched over form. Her head lifted, and through the corona of silver, furious light, Void-black eyes met hers. 

_“Remember.”_

The vision collapsed and she felt something hard smack the side of her face. Pain—fresh and raw—shook her out of the last of her trance. 

Her mouth opened on a scream, but she caught herself at the last second. The sensations of light and smell and pure, unfocused _feeling_ wrapped around her like a vice. 

Her anchor was active. She was sitting inside another rift of her own making. 

Roslyn felt the wolf rise in confusion, its shape beginning to form before her eyes, caught between the Fade and the waking world. With effort, she drew on what little focus she still had to settle herself, and closed the rift. 

The weight of reality pressed down and smothered her senses. She felt the final, mournful cry of spirits ghosting around her as they were forced back. The wolf shivered in revulsion at the back of her mind, and discomfort rippled over their connection. 

_Sorry,_ she thought, picking herself up off the ground. She’d fallen over in her haste to leave the vision. Pain beat steadily across her chin where she must have struck herself on the edge of the empty alcove bench. 

The wolf settled, letting a trickle of unease and concern brush against her. It was followed by a firm, startling impression of doubt. 

_Do you,_ she started, hesitant to form the question, _see what I see when I go into that place?_

A quick denial. The feeling of emptiness and absence filled her mind, a sensation of waiting, wondering, worrying, flooded in around her. The emotion was so sharp. There was no language to the sensations, but it was clear. 

Roslyn set herself against the damp alcove wall, dragging up her knees to catch her breath. The rain was still pouring down onto Ostagar, the water pooling into the alcove, soaking her pants and boots. 

_Okay_ , she thought deliberately. _I’m going to try and show you what I see._

Closing her eyes, she tried to recall the image of the solitary hill under the moon, the figure of Andraste kneeling in her blood-stained white shift. She held it in her mind, and tentatively reached for the wolf. 

It clashed at once, her teeth jarring as a discordant shriek resounded in her chest. She winced, letting the image go, releasing the wolf as it leapt up in alarm. The effect was completely disorienting, as if two parts of her were fighting against themselves. The wall in the back of her mind seemed to rear up, a blank, black bulwark of anything—repelling the wolf. 

Concern washed over her, but the wolf kept its distance, pacing around the perimeter of her wall. It seemed to be testing their connection, reinforcing it. She felt the place where its aura brushed against hers now, sweeter, darker, older—the feeling of a vast, sprawling forest. 

Her mind split between the conflicting sensations, part of her burning with the fierce heat in her chest, beating in vain against the blank wall—while the rest struggled to remember who she was. 

Roslyn didn’t know how long she sat against the cold stone wall, trying to map the confines of her own skin, to feel the steady rise and fall of her own chest—to _be_. 

The wolf sat beside her, waiting, patient. It retreated after a while, to wherever it went when she was awake and it had no desire to remain with her. 

She could almost pretend she was alone. 

Her eyes opened, the fine details of the far wall standing out in sharp relief to her enhanced sight. She unclenched her hands, let them lay atop her knees. Slowly, she flipped her left palm. Green light danced over the walls as her mark bristled. The glyph shifted in its secret rotation, the nine points of her star shining like the constellations that had been absent from that moon-filled sky. 

Andraste’s sky. 

Tears fell from her burning eyes. She wanted to go find Dorian, to tell him what she’d seen, to ask him what he thought it meant. She couldn’t do this alone. How the fuck was she supposed to understand… _this_? 

But he didn’t remember. And a sinking dread in the pit of her stomach told her that the more she tried to explain, the worse it would be. The wolf, the entity _sharing her body and mind_ , couldn’t understand. How could he?

How could anyone?

A longing for Iron Bull flickered like a moth in her mind. Someone who could sit with her, and simply allow her to remember what she was supposed to be. Damn her for asking him to stay behind and protect Skyhold. 

Fear, of herself, of the foreign, strange power at work in her mind and her heart, reared up. It was a familiar sensation—she had battled a similar sensation for so many years with her magic, thinking it nothing more than an interloper controlling her hands, a puppet-master twisting her to its unthinking, primal, chaotic urges. 

But she had conquered this fear. She was _more_ than this fear. She had mastered her strings and turned them to her own purpose. She was not a shrinking child anymore, or a hurt teenager, who raged at something she’d never wanted and could not control. 

She was a _woman_ , fierce and strong and powerful. She was the Herald of Andraste. She was the fucking Inquisitor. She had fought, tooth and nail, to win mastery over herself. To control that which had made her own body a weapon against her will. 

The storm raged outside her small alcove, rain pounding on stones which had stood for thousands of years, stones which had been bathed in blood and seen death on a scale which she could not fathom. The violence of Ostagar rose around her, showing her how small she was. 

But she was not small. Not anymore. 

Her marked hand clenched, and the light in the alcove faded. The darkness rose, and she forced herself to sit in it. To stare into it. To recognize it for what it was—just one more thing that scared her. 

She had watched Andraste climb a solitary hill in a foreign, forgotten world, watched her kneel, just like she had knelt, and clutch at a shining white stone. 

What more proof did she need?

Roslyn took a deep breath in the cold dark, exhaled, and left her fear in the alcove before she stepped back into the storm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations to the song can be found [here](https://lyricstranslate.com/en/ver%C3%B0-m%C3%ADn-be-mine.html#songtranslation) and I suggest you go give them a read because I'm a monster and I like taunting you guys.
> 
> So you know how the moon is crazy fucking huge in the Hissing Wastes. Yeah. So I decided to...change that a bit to better suit my own purposes. Also why are there two moons in Thedas and why is one that fucking big. 
> 
> Anyway. Normal chapter. Nothing to see here. Totally, totally normal. 
> 
> <3


	47. Fallen from the Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["I Am the Antichrist to You" by Kishi Bashi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ignvw4zpCAg&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&t=0s&index=50)

By the time Roslyn returned to the upper ward, the rain had slowed to a slight drizzle. 

The fires of the Inquisition were still burning in between the makeshift tents, so it must not have been so long she’d stayed in the vision of Andraste. She let her hood fall back, taking the cold night air in stride. The rain ran softly down her cheeks, numbing the heat, punctuating the slow release of tension from her chest. 

Every step, every beat of her heart, felt changed. Quiet. The longer she lived with the decision to believe herself, to believe that Andraste had chosen her, the more calm settled into her spine and the burning hollow of her chest. 

The lines of tents were also quiet as night fell in truth. She caught the edges of conversations, whispers behind canvas, over a hand of cards or a cup of dice. A thread of fear and anticipation hung in the air, potent, like an auric mist. Her soldiers were worried. She wondered how many of them had ever seen true battle before. There were few left from Haven, but they must be remembering the valley swathed in black shapes, the monsters tearing into their homes, the dragon obliterating their last refuge with red and black fire. 

But the Grey Wardens were not monsters. They were people, just like those waiting with baited breath in a fortress at the edge of the world. They were soldiers following orders, just as she would give orders to the soldiers who followed her. 

The eluvians would guide them deep down into the earth, to face whatever Clarel had summoned up from the darkness, but _she_ would lead them. 

_To whatever end._

The thought hung heavy around her neck as she made her way slowly back to her tent. 

Only to stop at the sight of a figure waiting for her. 

She relaxed as Solas straightened from where he’d been leaning against the wall of her crumbled tower, taking a few steps into the light of a nearby torch. “I’d wondered where you’d gotten to,” she murmured.

He stopped a few feet from her—a tightness in his posture that made her instantly wary. “I felt a disturbance in the Veil.” His expression was careful, but there was something bright in his eyes. Bright, and tense. “Are you…”

She thought about telling him what happened, what she had seen. But the lie came too easily to her lips. “The anchor’s new ability is taking some…getting used to. I’m fine,” she added as his brow furrowed. “It was nothing serious.”

Another day. Not tonight. She didn’t want his reaction, whatever it was, to change what she felt tonight.

“Ah. I am glad.”

She waited, lifting an eyebrow when he didn’t continue. 

“I want to show you something,” he said in a rush, his voice low and rough. He held out his hand, and took another step toward her. “Will you come with me?”

Her lips parted, uncomfortable heat flickering in her stomach at the urgent look in his eyes. “Of course,” she murmured, placing her hand in his. 

Some part of her saw his tense posture, the tightness around his eyes and the firm grip on her hand, as something to fear, but she was too tired to indulge in the worry that he would suddenly vanish into thin air. Her mind was ringing with Andraste’s voice, her cheeks burning with tears lost to the rain, and so she simply gave him her hand. As he pulled, and interwove their fingers, she chose to believe the truth of his touch. 

Truly, it was so much simpler just to believe. To let this, to let _all_ of it, be real. 

“Did you learn anything useful from your spirits?” she asked after a moment, as they walked up to the southern wing of the fortress. The ground was littered with fallen rubble and the detritus of ancient wars, but Solas picked his way through as if he had tread this path so often he no longer needed to watch his step. 

“No,” he murmured. “Though there are many spirits who press against the Veil here, most of them willing to listen and teach, none knew anything more about this…witch you met. She seems to be an enigma to them.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.”

“Whatever her motivations, the eluvians will lead us true. I learned from Amund that the sisters Boreya and Qestyra were able to scout out the thaig in the Deep Roads.”

“They were,” Roslyn said, staring out through a gap in a broken wall as a view of the land south of Ostagar appeared. Her eyes caught on the tops of the trees, the mist clinging to them like low-hanging clouds. She almost thought she could see the ice far, far into the frozen south. “I just hope we can keep the element of surprise tomorrow. As far as last-second boons go, this ranks high on the list of things I wouldn’t want to turn against us.”

His grip tightened on her hand, his thumb brushing the inside of her wrist. “The night before a battle is always the hardest. Like the moment before a jump, or a plunge into freezing water, the anticipation can be worse than the impact.”

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “Have you been in many battles?”

The ghost of a smile stretched over his lips. “I have dreamt of them often enough in the Fade. Here, for example,” he nodded to the fortress, “where the armies of King Cailan met with those of the darkspawn horde before the Fifth Blight. I felt the soldiers’ fear, their dread, ripening with every breath and beating of their heart. The night was choked with them as they took every opportunity to live, _truly_ live, before what might have been, and was, for many of them, their last day.” He shook his head, eyes going distant, as if he were listening to the spirits of the fortress whisper to him of their doom. “This place has seen many wars, and hides many secrets. The Fifth Blight saw only the latest.”

“I didn’t know you’d been here.”

“I traveled to many places of significance before we met.” He looked at her, eyes glowing dimly in the darkness. The light from the torches was faint and far behind now, and there was no moonlight to see by. Both of them were relying on their sight to guide them. 

The leather of Solas’s fingerless gloves pressed against her skin and sent nerves dancing down her spine, as if her body were mapping every shift, every sensation of him. “You’ll have to tell me about them some day,” she murmured. 

His smile faded, but it lingered in his eyes, in the way he seemed to drink her in. “I would like that.”

They walked for some time in silence. The storm rolled to a begrudging halt overhead and the heavy clouds thinned. Lances of moonlight brushed against the crumbled, time-worn stone, splashes of silver amidst the darkness. 

“You know we can’t go that far,” Roslyn said after a while, needing to say something to fight the growing tension in her stomach, the urge to pull him aside and kiss him. But there was something on his mind. Part of him was here, with her, but the rest… “It doesn’t look good for the Inquisitor to bail on her men before her first real battle. Can’t have people thinking I’m a coward.”

He said nothing, making her anxiety peak. 

“If you’re trying to lure me away to do something untoward—”

“When I last came here,” he interrupted, casually, “I stumbled upon a hidden treasure. One I think you will appreciate.”

Her brow lifted. “Oh? How…interesting.” She tried not to sound disappointed. Part of her had hoped this little outing was heading toward something less academic. He was leading her to some ancient relic, now, on the night before a battle? She knew he had a love of the past, but…

Solas stopped before an open door, the corner of his mouth tugging up in amusement. “Don’t discount this place before you see it. I wouldn’t want you to have to swallow your premature assessment.”

She let out a small laugh as he dropped her hand. “You know what they say about pride.”

Blinking as she followed him into the darkness, she didn’t have to wait long for her sight to adjust. He sent three small wisps of blue light to circle over their heads, illuminating the room. 

“It goeth before…”

She stopped as she saw pews to either side of a center nave, most of them crumbled or broken, some covered in cobwebs or dirtied rags. The floor beneath her was scuffed with dirt and grime as well, though there were hints of color here and there, as if the white marble it once was had only been able to survive in a few, hidden places. She frowned, realizing he must have taken her to a chapel of some kind. She opened her mouth to tell him that just because she was Andrastian, she wasn’t impressed by any old chantry—and froze. 

The wisps of light had moved through the space, not much larger than the small chapel back at Skyhold, though this one had a true nave and transept. At the end of the small procession of pews stood a raised dais, a block of white marble threaded with gold, and behind…

Windows of painted glass. 

In the earlier days of the Chantry, there had been no funds for the finer stained glass which now sat in the Grand Cathedral, or even in Skyhold. It was an expensive decoration, and one some of the smaller chantries had elected not to incur. Instead, to give the impression of greater wealth, special paint had been used to convey the same scenes—usually that of the Maker revealing himself to Andraste, the Alamarri fighting back the hordes of Tevinter warriors, the temptation of Maferath and his subsequent betrayal, the burning of the Prophet, the mercy of Hessarion, and the apotheosis of Andraste when she became the Maker’s Bride. 

This chantry was small, with only three painted windows, the revelation, the betrayal, and the apotheosis, but it held her focus more acutely than the Grand Cathedral.

Roslyn moved without thought, throwing her own globes of bright, white light into the air to see more clearly. She took the two steps up to the marble altar, bracing her hand against its surface to lean forward. The paint was chipped, and the scenes long-tarnished by age and weather, but they were still beautiful. The hand which had painted them was kind to Andraste, giving her a soft, rounded face, cascading yellow hair, and skin the color of burnished wheat. She held a burning sword turned upright, upon her head a crown of gold. 

The picture warred against the image Roslyn held in her mind. Of a woman hardened by war, round with motherhood, and transformed by faith. This likeness was closer to the one she had loved as a child, grasping at the outstretched hand of the statue in the shadows of the Emerald Cove, reaching for a way out. 

The mote in her chest burned, tightening her throat, making her breath come fast as she stared.

And for the first time since hearing the title of Herald, she felt…as if someone had finally taken her hand. 

“Was I wrong?”

Her heart leapt into her throat as she turned. Solas stood at the end of the nave, watching her with soft, searching eyes. The blue light washed over him, making him look like a figure stepped out from one of his murals. Illuminated, chin tilted up, no shadows carving out his features. He was laid bare before her, no mask slipped over his face, no hiding. 

“Are you ever?” she asked, voice breaking as she didn’t bother to control it.

He smiled, but it didn’t hold. His brow creased, tension showing in the feathered muscle of his jaw. “Roslyn,” he walked toward her, shoulders rising in a deep breath, “there is something I wish to tell you. Something you must—”

She didn’t let him finish. He was only a few feet away, one step beneath her. Close enough to touch. And just as she had decided to stop fighting her own belief, she decided, then, to stop questioning her heart. 

Her hands gripped the collar of his vest. She saw his eyes go wide at whatever he found in her face—just like that first night a year ago before it had all gone wrong. But when she pulled him in for a hard kiss, felt the slight chap of his lip, the taste of mint, and something sharply sweet, like anise, there was no warning, no voice to tell her to stop. The moment did not break and shatter into a million jagged shards. It held, and grew. She remembered, and repainted the memory of that kiss—urgent, desperate, wild, both of them fighting for something they needed from the other. Both of them breaking apart against the other. She reforged it, just as she had reforged her fear. 

He responded at once, hands finding purchase on her waist as she pulled him flush against her chest, gripping tight. She parted his lips, tilted his head up so she could taste him more fully. Whatever he’d been about to say devolved into a clipped groan as his fingers dug into the fabric of her tunic, still wet from the rain. 

Her hands slipped down over his collar, tracing the taut line of his neck. She cupped the back of his head, truly feeling the bare shape of it. The nail of her thumb moved gently over the tip of his ear, and he shuddered beneath her. 

The shudder, the soft, aching clutch of his hands, was so sweet she wanted to cry.

She pulled back, thrilling as she saw that his eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide with lust and longing. Their breaths mingled in the stillness of the chapel, misting in the cold air. 

She licked her lips, heart beating so fast she thought it might burst from her chest. The unspoken truth she’d been struggling with for months—for nearly a year, if she were being honest with herself—rose in the space between them like another ball of light. 

Roslyn framed his face in her hands, ran her eyes over the lovely, softened, plane of his cheek, his angled brow, the little scar above his right eye, and murmured, “I love you.”

Solas blinked, an expression of heartbreaking confusion crossing his face. 

“I love you, Solas,” she repeated, trying to ignore the needling anxiety in the back of her mind. She wasn’t afraid, but her body still shied from the truth. Her heart kicked up, and she forced her hands not to shake as she waited. 

And like color rising across a dark night sky with the morning sun, his expression transformed into one of unbridled awe. “ _Vhenan_ ,” he murmured, hands clenching as he seemed to struggle for words. “I…”

A smile tugged at her lips. “What have I told you about cursing at me in elven?”

He laughed, the sound skipping like a stone across a still pond, resonating in his chest. His eyes flicked low, and she thought she caught a hint of conflict in them. 

“What does that mean?” 

What had Shartan called Andraste in her vision?

She knew, she _must_ know, now, but she wanted to hear him say it. She _needed_ to hear him say it. 

“It means ‘heart’,” he murmured, meeting her gaze. “It is what my people call those whom we love.” 

Heat rushed through her anxiety, snapping the last tethers it held over her. Tears collected in her eyes as she smiled, as her fingers trembled. “And when were you planning on telling me?” Her voice came out choked, joy making her stumble over her words. “You’ve been keeping that one to yourself for a few weeks, now.”

She had never been good with joy. It was a foreign light which thrummed behind her sternum, made her feel giddy, reckless, as if she were about to burst from her skin into a scatter of golden dust. 

His expression softened along with his hands, gathering her closer, sliding up her back to hold her. “I’ve known for much longer. I simply didn’t admit it to myself.”

She laughed, the sound catching on a sob. “We’re a mess, you and I.”

Light kindled in his eyes as he matched her smile. 

Roslyn could have stood like that for hours, seeing the adoration, the affection, the _love_ in his gaze. It had been so, _so_ , long since anyone had looked at her like he was looking at her—like he saw all the sharp pieces of her and welcomed them. Like he saw every bit of darkness inside her and chose, in spite of that, to stay. 

He had come back. And he had stayed. 

But the deep pit of longing inside her had other ideas, ideas that had been brewing for over a year, that were no longer tempered by her own better judgement or rationality. 

She blinked the last tear from her eyes, swallowing as she purposefully pressed herself deeper into his embrace. Her thumb dragged slowly across the edge of his ear. Her other hand dipped low under the collar of his shirt, splayed against the lean, taut muscles of his shoulders. With every breath she took, her stomach expanded against his chest, reinforcing the lack of space between them. 

He guessed the direction of her thoughts. His grip tightened on her shirt and edged it up. His fingers found the heated skin at the base of her spine, and _dug_. She shuddered as she bent to kiss him again. Slowly, intently, she took his lower lip in her teeth, eyelids fluttering as a moan sounded deep in his chest. 

She caught the leather strap of his necklace, lifted it up and over his head, and let it gently fall to the ground. 

He looked strangely bare without it, his neck a flush of faint pink over pale skin, collar pulled back and rumpled. She leaned down and kissed the base of his jaw, tasted rain, and sweat, and the sharp scent of something heady and floral, like elfroot or embrium—the traces of his work preparing poultices for her soldiers. 

She bent to working down his neck, sucking bruises into his skin, wanting to claim, to mark little bits of him which belonged only to her. She felt his pulse quicken as his aura sparked and tugged at hers. 

She released hers easily, humming as he twined them together. Waves of his longing and desire swept down deep into her core, mixing with her own and fueling them both like fans to a flame. 

“Roslyn,” he murmured into her hair, uttering her name like a prayer. His fingers slid up under her shirt, toying with the edge of her breastband, while the other hand dipped lower, palming her ass, pulling her closer. 

All at once, the heat in her stomach, the blood pounding between her legs, grew unbearable. Breath coming fast, she tugged his vest, pulled at his shirt. She needed to touch him. To feel the whole lean length of him. His tunic came next, followed closely by his gloves and undershirt. 

His shoulders were broad, muscled, a compact strength in the streamlined length of his limbs. She had felt it before, had even seen herself carried away in his arms once in a dream, but there was something—shocking about seeing it for herself. About being able to trace the proof.

Her fingers skimmed along his chest, felt the faint brush of his fine hair, before she stilled. 

Tiny ridges spread in neat lines over his shoulders, spiraling down his chest and over his navel. He stood in her shadow, but she caught sight of faint, silvery—

But he stepped up before she could see clearly, sliding her shirt up over her head, releasing her breastband in the same breath. His aura pulsed between her legs and she gasped, letting him push her back against the altar. It dug into her lower back, but she welcomed the sensation, caught between the marble and him, his hips, the firm length of his erection. 

_Maker_ , it had been a long time. 

Her skin was still damp from the rain, and she shivered as he kissed her neck, and then lower. His clever fingers caught the tip of one breast, sending a lance of feeling down into her core. Mist billowed up around them both, a cloud of breath and heat rising into the air to the rhythm of her beating heart. 

He kissed the space between her breasts, and she moaned. 

“Roslyn,” he murmured, voice heavy, resonating with the pulsing whisper of his aura. The sound and the sensation curled around her as he continued to tease her with his lips, brushing ever so slightly with his tongue as he spoke. “Roslyn, _vhenan_ …”

He had begun to kneel, but she pulled him back up, twisting to push him against the marble altar. She caught his lips, swallowing his breathy laugh of surprise, and fumbled for the laces of his pants. 

His fingers caught hers, and held. “Roslyn, wait.”

She pulled back, bruised lips parted as she panted and met his gaze. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he murmured, bringing her hands up to his lips, kissing her fingers. “Nothing is wrong, I just…”

She waited, taking in the lovely flush on his neck, how his freckles stood out on his cheeks. The light had grown too dim to see their color clearly, and she realized her orbs of illumination had winked out in her distraction. 

He swallowed, licking his lips as he framed her waist with his hands. Slowly, he traced up to her chest, cupping her breasts, as if memorizing the feel and shape of them. Heat pounded between her legs, and she bit the inside of her lip to keep herself still. 

Slow. She should take this slowly. She’d forgotten how she wanted to savor it.

“It…has been a long time for me,” he finally murmured, still touching her, still looking at her with reverence, and lust, and just a hint of fear.

She cocked her head, unable to help her grin. Was he…self-conscious? “For me too.”

He tore his gaze from drinking her in, surprise showing in the crease of his brow. 

“What?” she laughed. “Did you think otherwise?”

His lips parted, an embarrassed smile canting up one side of his mouth. “You are a compelling woman with no shortage of people who would eagerly give themselves over to you, if you wished. I thought… I know you are fond of Hawke—”

She grimaced. “Fuck, no.” Watching his expression move between relief and discomfort, she couldn’t help but love him even more. He acted so cold, so distant, so detached from the world. It was…adorable, really, to see him wonder after something so mundane. “No,” she repeated, kissing him gently. “There hasn’t been anyone else. Not for years.”

He tipped his forehead to rest on hers, warmth flickering between them like a flame. “I see.”

A moment of silence settled in the chapel.

“Do you…want to wait?” she asked, knowing that she _would_ wait. She’d wait as long as he wanted.

He shook his head, pulling her closer. She felt his heart beat against hers, skin to skin, pulse to pulse. “I have made you wait too long.”

She began to object, but he silenced her with a kiss, and wrapped his aura intently around hers. Longing rose like a pyre inside her, and when she pushed him back against the altar, he went willingly. There were runes carved into the surface, indentations digging into her hands as she swung her legs over him, and something about them pinged in the back of her mind, but she didn’t look. Her focus was bent to the untying of his pants, to the shoving of them down over his thighs, his calves. Hers went as well, the buckle of her belt clinking softly as it was discarded with the rest of her clothes. 

Their limbs tangled as she tried to unlace her boots, Solas’s mouth sucking soft promises into the overheated flesh of her chest. Heart racing, she finally let them tumble into the corner of the chapel, thudding into something which made a dull clunk. He let out a soft chuckle, and she narrowed her eyes, daring him to disparage her for clumsiness. 

He said nothing as she pushed him down against the altar, and settled herself over his waist. 

She hesitated for a moment, staring at him, tracing each and every one of his features. Somehow, he had managed to keep his wisps of light in the air. Blue light washed over his pale skin. If not for the heavy rise and fall of his stomach, the flutter of his pulse at the base of his jaw, she might have thought him carved from a finer marble than the altar, freckled with gold dust. Now that she could see him clearly, the lines across his chest, shoulders, and stomach were plain. Silver-white, almost like scarred skin, but in a design which reminded her of the mosaics in the elven ruins.

Tracing the pattern around his left nipple, she murmured, “I’m going to ask you about these later.”

The knot in his throat bobbed, but he said nothing, eyes wide and attentive on her face. 

“What? No snarky comment?” she teased, reaching up to pull back her hair where it had fallen from its tie. “If I’d realized you could be silenced so—”

“Don’t,” he said, catching her arm. “Let your hair down.”

Nerves flickered to life in her chest, but she dropped her hands. 

She kept very still as he brushed the thick curtain of her hair over one shoulder, toying with the curls, tracing her skin and raising gooseflesh over the back of her neck. He hesitated, meeting her gaze, before he moved his hand slowly to the side of her face. Her chest constricted. Her heart gave a feeble lurch before it pounded quick against her sternum. 

“Is this all right?” he whispered, fingers hovering just over the tip of her ear. 

She clenched her jaw as her chin trembled. Heat thudded in her ears, but she nodded. 

Slowly, _achingly_ tender, Solas traced the pointed tip of her left ear. 

Part of her shied from the touch, the feeling so foreign, so uncountably strange that she wanted to run from it. She tried to ignore the part of her which still remembered the pain and shame. 

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, the lilting cadence of his voice drowning out her discomfort.

A soft sob broke through her lips. Her breath hitched as she stared down at him, the gentle touch of his finger tracing the tip of her ear like the last breaking of a dam. 

Tears fell down her cheeks as he framed her face in his hands, as he felt the full web of scars behind both ears. Roslyn didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but she didn’t care. For the first time in her life, she did not think of Helena and her abuse. She did not think of the hardened shame, or her anger at an absence of family, or heritage. 

She held his gaze as he traced every scar, every little cut which had long since healed, and felt only him. 

Eventually, when she was able to regain some control over the tangling of emotions in her chest, she let out a small, choked laugh. 

Lying beneath her, Solas shook his head, wiping the tracks of tears from her cheeks. “You deserve so much better.”

She smiled, nodding. Of course she did. But the world was not so kind, and right then, she didn’t much care. The world existed outside the walls of this crumbling chantry. The world had no hold on her now.

Bending down, she brushed another kiss against his lips, and murmured, “How do you say ‘I love you,’ in elven?”

His hands stilled, a tremor going through his body. She felt him breathe deeply, his chest expanding under her hands. “ _Ar lath ma_.”

She smiled as one more tear slipped down her cheek, making their kiss taste of salt and rain. “ _Ar lath ma,_ Solas.”

The sound he made was half-moan, half-laugh, breathless and giddy and weighed down with emotions she could not begin to understand. He slid his hands into her hair as he kissed her, shifted his body underneath hers to take more of her weight. Energy hummed in his touch, and she hummed back as she felt his erection ghost between her thighs. 

His grip spasmed as his hips twitched, canting upright. 

She rose, catching her breath as his head fell back to the marble. Pupils blown wide, he looked up at her, as if he were caught in a trap he had no intention of leaving. There was something thrilling about it, knowing how studiously he’d hidden himself from her for so long, and now to see him laid bare beneath her, flushed with want…

Holding his gaze, she slid her hand slowly down his chest, following the trail of his soft, sparse hair to the joining of his hips. The taut muscles under her hand rippled, gooseflesh risen in her wake. Keeping her eyes locked on his, watching for any sign of second thoughts, any flicker of hesitation or fear, she took his cock in her hand. 

“ _Fenedhis_ ,” he gasped, chest hollowing out as he exhaled sharply into the air, his breath so warm it fogged up in a cloud around his head. He reached for her hips, nails digging into her skin, as if to hang on to her as she softly ran her palm along the underside of his cock. It was already slick, precome wetting her fingers as she slipped her thumb over his head, felt the give and slide of his foreskin as she sized him. He was, obnoxiously, lovely. Just like the rest of him. 

Her own body reacted, core clenching as heat rippled inside her. Their breath mingled in the air, auras quivering as they both waited, watching, mindful of nothing but each other. 

“Second thoughts?” she asked, voice breaking as her breath hitched. Every part of her was bent to the space between them, aware of every shift of his hips, every flutter of his pulse, every tease and tremble of his aura. 

It took him a moment, but then he gave her a small, heartbreaking smile, and murmured, “No.”

And with the tears on her cheeks not yet dry, she lowered herself onto him. 

He groaned, twitching slightly as she adjusted to him, as she felt him shift inside her. The sensation was so good after so long without that her aura fluctuated, energy sparking in the air as she lost control of herself for a moment. The little pricks of white light buzzed and caught in the air, dying as soon as they began to fell. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” she gasped, trying not to lower too fast, or clench too hard. He let out a broken laugh, and she grinned. “Sorry.”

He shook his head, apparently beyond words as he rose up to kiss her. They both moaned at the sudden shift, the friction. She pushed him back down after a moment, chancing a slow roll of her hips. “Is this all right?” she murmured, her voice a rasp. 

The half-lidded look in his eyes kindled heat in her core. She straightened up, placing her hands on his shoulders, and began to rock back and forth. He caught her slow pace, hands holding her waist and thigh, anchoring her. 

It took her a moment to get comfortable with the sensation, to meet every thrust of his hips with her own. She held his gaze, watching as his eyes grew dark and wide, as they caught the faint light and flashed up at her. Sweat began to pool in the small of her back, her breath coming hard as she moved over him. It was slow, so much slower, and more careful, than she’d ever been with sex before, but it was _everything_. It was like a song whose words she was remembering as she sang. 

She watched him as his expression shifted, tightened, as his brow creased and his lips opened on a groan. As his chest and stomach began to rise and fall in quick, graceful succession. He was so, Maker damned _beautiful_ , it hurt. 

It didn’t take long for his pace to stutter, for what little control he was holding over himself to fracture, and unravel. “ _Roslyn_ ,” he gasped, grip spasming over her hips. 

“It’s okay,” she whispered, breathless, riding his release. He let out a lovely sound, a sob, a plea, and his hips jerked upright, eyes closing reverently as he came. His expression smoothed into one of utmost bliss, and she nearly started crying again. For that one, wonderful moment, he looked so young, and free.

She waited until he went still, sliding herself off him gently before she bent and pressed kisses to his temples, his eyes, his cheekbones, his jaw, wiped the moisture from his brow with her lips.

“ _Ar lath ma,_ Roslyn,” he whispered, sweat-slicked hands running up her sides, fingers threading through her hair. 

She grinned, flush with satisfaction. “ _Mirtha mala serannas_.”

He chuckled. “I suppose I do owe you thanks,” he murmured. His fingers trailed down her spine, making her bend and squirm. He might have come, but she’d never gotten off so quickly. The only time she’d come close was in the Fade, with him. 

“Some other day.” She pressed a kiss to his nose, began to move off him, when he held her fast. “Solas, it’s okay—”

“We are not done,” he said, voice low and vibrating as his aura rose from a hazy, fluid impression of bliss to something with intent. Something bent toward her. 

“What—” Her voice broke off as he sat upright, pulling her onto his lap, and let his aura envelop her. All at once she was plunged back into that place of manic, rioting sensation—as if he’d opened a rift over them both and she could feel him as clearly as she could in the Fade. But her anchor was silent apart from a faint twitch, the wolf somewhere far from where she sat on an alter in a ruined fortress. 

Sharp, fresh peppermint slipped over her tongue and ran down her throat. She breathed in the smell of _him_ , of pine smoke and peppermint, of parchment and candles and dust. The sweet susurration of his voice curled around her spine, reaching deep down into the heart of her and pulling, _beckoning_ —nearly leading her over the edge. 

“Let go,” he whispered, teeth catching the pointed tip of her ear and sending shockwaves over her skin. “ _En’ara ma, vhenan_. Let go.”

“Solas,” she gasped, the sensations spiraling around her like light. She felt her fingers dig into his back, the itching spark of her anchor answer the flurry of magic, his arms holding her up as she shook and trembled with the wealth of pure energy coursing through her. 

It wasn’t the same chaos of feeling he’d thundered through her in the Fade on that snow-covered hill, but it was close. More controlled, perhaps, less manic, but there was intent in every layer of his aura, every flex and pulse of it inside her. Dimly, she felt him building her up, pushing her higher, the sensation faster and freer than anything she’d felt before. 

Almost like flying. 

He was threaded so tightly around her, she wouldn’t have been able to say where she ended and he began. She was drunk, intoxicated on the taste of him in her mind—sweeter than lyrium, more raw than the Fade. He was everything. It was _everything_.

“I have you,” he murmured, forehead pressed to hers, hand cradling the back of her head as she cried out in rapture. “Let go.” 

The pulsing heat of her body expanded, contracted, and then burst. 

Her vision went white with the strength of it, aura shattering into a thousand refracted pieces of light. She was full of him, full of everything, in one infinite, glorious moment. And then she was floating. Falling. Free. 

She heard him murmur her name as she drifted slowly back into her body, but it sounded as if it came to her from across a great distance. She felt the corners of her mouth lift.

“Roslyn,” he repeated, kissing her cheek, the soft brush of his lips a tether that she reached out for, and held. “Come back to me,” he murmured, running his lips along the scars behind her ears. 

A hum was all she could muster as the frantic pace of her heart slowed. Her limbs felt boneless, but he held her, caressed her body—as if he was coaxing her back to the world. 

She shuddered as an aftershock ran down her spine. She traced the edges of her form with the movement of his fingers, remembering what she was as he showed her the boundary of her own skin. 

“What was that?” she mumbled, trying to remember how to work her hands. 

He chuckled, tipped her chin down so she could see into his eyes. Clear, dark blue, like the turning of a storm. “I didn’t quite catch what you said, _vhenan_. Repeat it for me?”

She took a deep breath, blinked to clear her vision of white. “What was that, _you ass_?”

His lips canted up into a sideways smile, satisfaction practically oozing from his expression. He brushed her hair back from her face, taking great care to tuck it behind her ears, while his other hand circled comfort into the small of her back. “An apology,” he murmured, regret coloring his voice. “One that was long overdue.”

Her heart twisted, and she kissed him, folding herself around his shoulders. “You’ve been holding out on me,” she murmured. “This apology was much better than the others.”

“I’ll take that under consideration.”

Her laugh was a giddy, fluttering thing. She still felt weightless, as if part of her were drifting up above the clouds, catching the light over the mountains, lingering as long as she could in the cold, clear air. “Seriously, that was…amazing.”

His eyes flicked over her shoulder, humor crinkling their corners. “I gathered. I think the rest of the fortress might be aware of your feelings on the matter as well.”

She followed his gaze, and her bliss floundered. Where the painted windows had once hung over them, now there was nothing but the dark night sky and a few shards of broken glass. The first few rows of pews had also been blown back, their dusty coverings flung hastily into the far edges of the chapel. 

So the bursting apart had not just been figurative, then. 

“Oh. Shit.”

Solas laughed, the sound growing deeper than his usual chuckle. It helped to cut the small sense of violation she felt at breaking something so lovely. 

“I really liked those windows,” she mumbled.

“You were magnificent,” he said through his lilting mirth. “Radiant. Shining with light. You were glorious.”

She looked back at him, fighting a smile as the praise warmed her chest. “I know. You were all right too. I suppose.”

His grin only spread, making him look young and cocky. There was a wild, reckless light in his eyes, one that made her heart ache with love. 

And love, and love, and _love_. 

Now that she’d said it, it was hard not to feel it in the air, like a second veil around them both, sweet and soft next to their sweat and rain-slicked skin. After so much waiting, and wanting, and hoping before she had even allowed herself to settle on what to hope for, being with him now felt closer to happiness than she had ever felt before. 

“What are you thinking?” he asked, his voice soft, quiet. 

She took her time in answering, cradling his face in her hands, running her eyes over every golden freckle on his cheeks. “That you were worth waiting for.”

He exhaled, voice breaking slightly as he said, “ _Ir abelas, vhenan._ ”

“ _Tel’abelas._ ”

His eyes closed in surrender as she kissed his brow. 

“We should get back,” she murmured, hating herself for even thinking to break this moment of peace. But despite her blissful state, she could not forget that tomorrow, she would be leading thousands of soldiers down into the Deep Roads, to a battle from which many might not return. “Someone must have heard the glass break.”

He hummed in agreement, though he didn’t make any move to get up. Neither did she, and for a long time, they sat there, holding each other against the inevitable moment they would need to part. 

A shiver went through Solas’s shoulders, and she grinned at the little bumps raising along his neck. “Are you cold?”

“We can see our breath,” he murmured, leaning back to eye her speculatively. “And this slab of stone is not exactly comfortable.”

She laughed. “You’re a proper mage. Can’t you use fire to heat it up or something?”

“I could,” he said with an air of patience, though his eyes were still overbright, “if you wanted to remain here for the night.”

“Tempting,” she mused, “but as rickety as my cot is, I think I’d prefer that to a drafty chantry.”

“You were the one who removed the windows.”

“Stay with me tonight,” she said before she could stop herself, voice coming out in a rush. “Come back to my tent with me.”

His smile softened. “If that is what you want.”

“I do.”

“All right,” he murmured, “as long as you don’t mind your scouts learning that you took me to bed.”

She arched her brow. “Half the Inquisition knows about us already. It won’t be news.”

“Do they?”

“You asked Cassandra if I’d like a mural painted in my bedroom. She probably all but crowed it from the rooftops.”

He dipped his head in agreement. “For a Seeker of Truth, she is quite bad at keeping secrets.”

A breeze cut through the chapel, and Solas winced as more gooseflesh rose up over his skin. 

“Come on,” she said, tugging him off the altar, leading him by the hand to his clothes. 

It took them a while to begin to make progress, Solas pausing every few seconds to kiss her, or touch her, or simply stare into her eyes. As if she might vanish at any moment, and the only way he could keep her present was to remind himself often. 

She understood the feeling. He was written all over her body, in the faint bruises marking her thighs, the sticky wetness, the sweat cooling on the back of her neck—but she still struggled to accept that this wasn’t just an especially sweet dream. 

Never mind that her dreams had never been so kind. 

She eyed the smile tugging at his lips as he leaned back against the altar to better don his foot wraps. Hooking her breastband into place, she moved forward and kissed him. 

He hummed a laugh onto her lips. “Have you changed your mind about returning to your tent?”

“Trying not to.” Her fingers danced along the hollow of his neck, tracing the angles of his collar and chest. “Can I ask about these?” She followed one of the spiraling silver lines, slightly raised over his skin like the long faded scars of a tattoo with no ink. 

He stilled, looking down as he finished the careful wrapping of his foot. “They are a memory of a life I once led.” His voice was slow, controlled, as if he were forcing each word out one by one. “A life I turned my back on.”

Roslyn watched his face, and saw the pain in his eyes. The regret. “Are they like the Dalish—”

“No,” he said sharply. 

Her brow lifted, waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t, she murmured, “I didn’t mean to pry.” Clearly, it was a sensitive topic. In fact, now that she thought about it, he had never said a kind word about the Dalish in the year and a half she’d known him.

He took a moment, but then he sighed, finishing his foot to pull her closer. His hands circled her waist, head falling onto her shoulder where he buried himself into the crook of her neck. “ _Ir abelas_. That was unworthy of me.”

Still troubled, but knowing she had no right to press him for more, she folded into him. “It’s okay.”

She had no right, but she still wanted to know. Even with him warming her skin, feeling his heart beat next to hers, she couldn’t help but hate the walls still raised between them. Walls, she knew, that she herself was maintaining by keeping secret about her visions of Andraste. 

Would _he_ be able to remember? Whatever strangeness was at work with Dorian, Solas might not be affected. He might even be able to help her understand what was happening. What Andraste wanted, and needed from her. 

But to accept that the Prophet was, truly, guiding her, was to accept that her life was not her own to live. And that was a terrifying thought. 

“My people called them _dirthevallas_ ,” he murmured, leaning back to meet her gaze. There was something—determined in his eyes, something bright. “They were awarded to those who proved their dedication to the principals we upheld.”

Roslyn waited, feeling as if, were she to speak, she might break this newfound desire of his to share. As if she might scare him back into his cold mask. 

“The pursuit of knowledge,” he added, reverence firming his voice. “The proliferation of understanding. The preservation of history.” 

“Well, that doesn’t sound like you at all,” she murmured, smoothing the crown of his head.

He let out a soft chuckle. “Once upon a time, it was all I could think about. I had intended as a child to devote my life to it. To uncovering the secrets of the world. To plumbing its hidden depths and forgotten treasures.” Darkness crept into the corners of his eyes, bitterness coloring his voice. “I am left with nothing but the reminder of my failure in the faded lines of these markings.”

Sympathy made her chest constrict. She knew, better than anyone, what it was like to abandon the life you thought you wanted, to be forced to become something you thought you hated. 

“I was going to join the Chantry,” she said, meeting his surprise with a smile and a nod. “I was going to run away from the Emerald Cove and beg for a place in a cloister. I knew they wouldn’t take me as a sister, but I could clean or serve or…something. I thought it was the best I could hope for, back then.”

“Would you have been happy with a life of contemplation?” His head tilted in genuine curiosity. “You seem…ill-suited to such a quiet existence.”

“I know, believe me.” She laughed, shaking her head. “I probably would have gone mad in a few months, but… Things were simpler, before my magic surfaced. I was not so—angry, before.” 

It was so hard to remember who she had been before her magic. All she had were traces of fear and longing, desperation that someone was watching over her, that someone cared. Andraste had been her lifeline, and she had framed herself around her faith. It had been the only thing which truly belonged to her in that castle of pain and shadows. 

Smiling over the knot of pain, she took Solas’s face in her hands. “You didn’t fail, Solas. You’re still the same man you always were. That life is still possible.” And though it was hard to imagine any future beyond Coryphea, beyond this war they had both found themselves in, she tried. “Who knows what will happen, after…all of this is done.” She swallowed. “It might as well be another world, for all the possibility.”

She didn’t let herself continue and tempt fate.

Solas went still, staring up at her intensely. In the dim light of the chapel, his eyes flashed like moonlight reflecting off a glassy lake. 

She kissed him, and finally let him go, turning to collect the rest of her clothes. Questions of the future could come later. They were still _them_ , no matter how much had changed. And she was still—conflicted. Did she owe him the truth, even though part of her shied from it?

She was bending to retrieve one of her boots—the other still lost somewhere in the refuse of the chapel—when Solas grabbed her waist, spun her around. Her mouth was open on a half-hearted admonition, when he sealed her lips with his own. It was a hard kiss, bruising, but there was something fierce in it. Something which made her spine bend and her lips part, her hands grab for his shoulders to anchor her. 

When he finally released her, she was gasping for breath, knocked back by the ferocity in his aura. 

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice breaking, as he held her close, as he breathed her in. “Thank you, _vhenan_.”

She swallowed back her stuttering heart, still not quite used to the reverence with which he said the world, called her ‘heart.’ “For what?”

“For everything.” He kissed her with adoration, holding her face as if she were something precious, something impossible. “For changing…everything.”

Her smile was a soft, hesitant thing. She donned her clothes, the amulet warm against her breast, her fingers laced with Solas’s, and left the broken chapel feeling lighter than she’d felt in a long, long time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS. GUYS THEY HAD THE SEX. THREE YEARS IN THE MAKING AND THEY FINALLY HAD THE SEX. 
> 
> I love you all very much. 
> 
> <3


	48. The Bravest Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["The Void" by IAMX](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_QgiFWFD7Fc&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&index=51&t=0s)

Roslyn awoke to the soft sounds of someone breathing beside her.

She blinked. Frowned. Shifted back at once at the feeling of skin next to hers—only to relax when she saw Solas’s face. The riot of alarm fluttering in her chest died. His body was warm, still under her hands where she had fallen asleep on his chest. 

The sight of him arrested her for a moment. He was…soft in sleep. Unencumbered in a way he had never been while awake. Her mind shied away from such intimacy before she realized, with a confusing swell of heat and nerves, that this was not an intrusion. He was here. With her. In her tent. Both of them were naked, limbs tangled under her thin cotton blanket on a cot which had not been meant for more than one person to sleep on. She had invited him to spend the night with her. 

Chest tight, she eased herself upright, thrilling at the immediacy of their touch. Fighting a strange urge to bolt, to put as much space as she could between them. _This is normal_ , she told herself, trying not to jostle him as she rose and slipped out of bed. _Totally normal._

A sudden flicker of amusement spread through her mind—the wolf. 

She winced. _Hello there._

The wolf had been absent all night. Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t truly interacted with it since expelling herself from the vision of Andraste. 

_Thank you for… stepping into the other room._

Wry, begrudging acceptance filtered down into her chest as she felt it shift. It seemed to be considering Solas through her eyes. Assessing him. 

_So… what do you think?_ she asked, not sure if it could understand what she was asking. 

The wolf gave a heavy sigh, settling on its large, grey-dappled paws in the front of her mind. Distrust resonated through their connection, followed by caution, and not a small amount of annoyance. But there was…fondness there as well. 

Roslyn wondered if that came from the vestiges of Wisdom, or from her. 

She paused before stepping away, tracing the elegant lines of his faded tattoos. Her fingers skimmed his skin, drawing a small, unconscious sigh from his lips. 

_Maker’s breath, I’m well and truly lost._

Tentatively, she reached out to smooth the crease line in his brow, softer in sleep, but still present. Faint bruises trailed down his neck like rose petals. His skin was so fair, it probably wouldn’t take much to raise color from it. The thought was distractingly tempting. In the dim light the gold freckles along his cheeks, his shoulders, scattered over his chest between the faded marks of his tattoos, made her loathe the very idea of leaving him.

The sounds of the fortress rose around her. The reality of what she was about to do fell down around her shoulders. And the small peace in her tent broke. Smoothing her lover’s brow seemed silly in the midst of what was to come. 

Her lover. The word sat strangely on her tongue. 

Roslyn rose, combing out her hair with her fingers as she donned her clothes. The bliss of the previous night was still there, humming in her spine, pumping through her blood with every remembered touch and breath, but she set it aside. She forced herself to consider that people, _her_ people, would die today, and there was nothing she could do to protect them. She was leading them down into the depths of the earth to fight an unknown foe—and she hated it. 

“Inquisitor?” 

She tensed, but forced herself to leave the tent, making sure that Solas had not yet stirred. Someone should be able to sleep in, if it couldn’t be her. 

Leliana was waiting for her outside, her cowl and armor pristine, her blue eyes sharp even so early in the morning. The sky was still dark, the first traces of light rising up in a lavender fog. “I had hoped to speak with you before you leave.”

Roslyn’s brow lifted. “Everything all right?”

“Of course. Preparations are being taken as we speak. Lieutenant Rylen tells me our forces should be able to move out within the hour. The twins have scouted the outskirts of the thaig for any hint that the Wardens are aware of our presence, but so far we seem to have surprise on our side.”

Roslyn watched her spymaster’s careful expression, noting with some alarm that her usual steely composure seemed to be tenuous—in the slight twitch of Leliana’s lips, the fidgeting of her hands. “Let me just finish getting dressed.”

A flicker of amusement pulled at her lips as Leliana eyed the tent. “Take your time. I don’t want to pull you away from anything…important. Also,” she held out a small pouch, the sound of something tinkling inside it, “I’m sorry to be so blunt, but consider carefully how you might wish to proceed.”

“What is this?” Roslyn asked, frowning. 

Leliana’s expression hardened as she turned. “A precaution.”

Roslyn narrowed her eyes as the woman left. Opening the pouch, she saw a handful of small vials filled with milky white liquid. Like cream, though it had a slightly blue tint to it. 

She hesitated when she pulled back the flap of her tent and found Solas donning his leggings. 

He looked up, met her gaze—and her slight tension bled away. 

“You could go back to sleep,” she murmured, lighting the candle on her table with a match. The light was dim, reminding her of last night. Heat circled down through her spine, and she had to fight a smile. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He watched her, eyes intent and almost—hungry, as he took in her every shift and gesture. “I would rather be awake.”

“Don’t let anyone else hear you say that, or your reputation will be brought into question.”

He finished with his foot wrappings and rose. For a moment, they both stood at opposite ends of the tent, watching each other. Waiting. As if this thing between them was a fledgling deer, not to be startled with any sudden movements. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked, taking what looked like a purposeful step toward her. 

His hands settled slowly on her waist, barely brushing the fabric of her tunic. Her eyes closed as she breathed him in—sweat, elfroot, and the vaguely floral scent he seemed to wear under his ears. “Nervous,” she murmured, tucking herself into the crook of his neck, running her fingers over his lean, muscled back. “I’ve never had time to think about a fight before. I’m not sure I prefer this to heading in blindly and hoping for the best.”

His arms came around her then, pulling her close. Part of her marveled at his willingness to be this present, even after everything else. “Try not to lose the discomfort. Too many leaders forget how to fear war, welcoming it like a friend whenever it comes calling. War should never be welcome.”

She leaned back to look into his eyes. Shadows gathered in their corners, and she knew that he was lost somewhere in the depths of his mind. Instead of asking him about it, she kissed him, and when she felt him respond at once, she smiled around his mouth. “Has anyone ever told you that you can be very cryptic sometimes?”

He hummed into her lips, sliding his hand into her hair and answering her with his tongue. 

Roslyn forced herself to pull back before she wanted to, satisfied with the blush standing out on his pale cheeks. “Help me dress.”

The process took longer than it should have, but they both managed to outfit themselves in their armor. With each piece, Roslyn refocused her thoughts. She would not begrudge herself the small happiness she’d managed to carve out with Solas, not for anything, but there were other lives in her hands now. With the final buckling of her reinforced gloves, the flaming eye of the Inquisition staring up at her, reminding her of who she was now, who she had to be, she took a deep breath, and straightened. 

“Where did you get these?”

She turned with a frown to find Solas staring down at the vials she’d left on her table. “Oh. Leliana just gave them to me.” She pulled her hair up into a tight bun, fixing it with a metal net and pins Dagna had made to go along with her new set of armor. Supposedly, if anyone else touched it, they’d be shocked into a momentary state of paralysis. She hadn’t asked how it worked, knowing firsthand that the arcanist had a way of getting lost in her own explanations. “You don’t know what they are, do you?”

Wearing his reinforced coat, the pelt of fur strapped over his shoulder and his chainmail peeking out of his open collar, there was little left of the soft man who had shared her bed. He was, again, the remote scholar, the apostate, the warrior. 

It took him a moment to speak, holding one of the vials in his hands delicately. “It is a medicinal tincture. Used to prevent the conception of a child.”

Her mind went blank. She stared down at the vial, the innocuous liquid seeming to reach out and strangle her thoughts. 

“Leliana gave this to you?”

She blinked rapidly, swallowing down the lump in her throat. _I’m going to kill her._ “I…yes. Just now.”

Startlingly, she heard him let out a soft chuckle. She met his gaze, seeing her own discomfort reflected in his eyes. “Your spymaster is nothing if not ruthlessly efficient at times.”

She tried to smile, to cut the tension, but she was stuck in her own mind. 

It had been so long since she’d fucked anyone that she’d entirely forgotten that there might be…unwanted complications, should she not take the proper precautions. She should have thought of this before leaping blindly into sex with him. Maker knew, if he had such reservations about being with her in the first place, she should have realized he wouldn’t want…

The idea of a child, the impossible, mad, entirely unrealistic _idea_ of one, was undercut by a sudden realization that she could not remember the last time she’d had her monthly bleeding. 

She flipped through the past few months rapidly, but with all the stress of becoming the Inquisitor, she had simply…forgotten. 

Clearing her throat, telling herself that it was not an immediate sign for worry, she took a deep breath—she hadn’t fucked anyone for years. She wasn’t pregnant. It had to be something else. “Right. Well. I suppose I should take one, then.”

Something tight shone in Solas’s eyes as he handed her the vial. “There are other steps I can take, as well. The onus need not fall to you alone.”

A dry laugh escaped her lips before she down the contents of the vial. The taste was overly sweet and floral, leaving a strange film on her tongue. “How generous of you.”

She cleared her throat, busying herself with buckling on her belt, checking the tightness of her greaves and gauntlets. 

There was no question of allowing herself to become pregnant. She had never wanted a child. And she certainly didn’t want one with Solas, no matter that she wasn’t sure if he had any intention of remaining with her longer than it took to defeat Coryphea. 

But there was something…painful, about both of them accepting it so easily. As if the very idea of a conversation about the future was pointless.

A gentle hand pressed to her cheek, and she turned to Solas. He let his gaze run over her face—half-sad, half-hopeful. “ _Ar lath ma_ ,” he murmured. 

The tight knot in her chest unwound. She heard the unspoken apology in his voice, felt the truth of it in his touch. She pressed a kiss to his palm. “I love you too. _Vhenan_ ,” she added, smiling slightly.

The light in his eyes was enough to ignore the question of any future. It was enough. 

They left her tent, joining the men and women streaming to the entrance of Ostagar. Thousands of her soldiers, all of them readying themselves to fight under her command. 

It was a heady kind of dread that pulsed in the pit of her stomach. If this was what it felt like to lead an army, she didn’t know if she would ever get used to it. She hoped she wouldn’t.

They found her inner circle assembled in one of the courtyards overlooking the southern wastes, sharing breakfast as they laughed and talked together. There was an air of anticipation hanging over them as well. Those who had seen their share of battle looked ready—Rainier, Cassandra, and Hawke seemed the most at ease, while the others looked somewhat twitchy. 

Dorian’s eyes widened as he caught sight of them both. “Well, hello,” he said tightly as she and Solas stopped at the edge of the group. “I’d wondered where you’d gotten to last night. I was very glad of the space, of course, but one does wonder when one’s tent mate disappears without word of his departure.” He looked pointedly at her instead of Solas, as if he were trying to set her eyebrows aflame. 

“You do your people a credit by your tact and keen observational skills, Dorian,” Solas said dryly. 

Dorian frowned as Isahn, to his left, let out a bark of laughter. 

“Seriously, Chuckles,” Varric asked, his air of disinterest not believable for a second, “we were worried. You didn’t sleep out in the rain, did you?”

Roslyn looked between the two of them, letting a sharp smile stretch across her lips. “Of course not, Varric. Solas slept with me.” And as the entire group went silent, she turned, and planted a firm kiss on Solas’s mouth, letting herself linger a bit too long, just to make them uncomfortable. “Get me something to eat, hm?” she murmured, firmly ignoring everyone as she straightened his vest.

He inclined his head, that brightness turning sly as he held her gaze. “Of course, Inquisitor.”

She turned and walked through the gawping onlookers, catching Cassandra’s wide smile and giving her a wink. 

_“Him?”_ Roslyn ignored Hawke’s faint outrage as she made her way up to the watchtower where Leliana was waiting for her. Behind her, the sounds of Sera’s retching joined Hawke’s raised voice. “The _hobo?_ Really?”

The morning wind cut across her cheeks, sending a jolt of alertness into the base of her stomach. Leliana didn’t seem bothered by the chill either, standing with her arms crossed, gazing out over the fog-bound marshes. 

“I came here once before, you know,” she said as Roslyn stepped up beside her. “Over a decade ago. Would you believe it’s been that long?” She sounded as if she were talking to herself, the tone in her voice wistful and soft. 

Roslyn waited, unsure how to take this change in her spymaster’s demeanor. 

“I followed the Hero of Ferelden here, after the first battle of the Blight.” Her sharp profile lifted, catching the faint light of the sun and softening. “We were so young…”

“I’m sorry we weren’t able to learn more about her whereabouts,” Roslyn murmured, watching her spymaster closely. It wasn’t her business, but it was clear something more than friendship rang in Leliana’s voice. Something more than frustration when she’d spoken with Alistair about the women they both were desperate to find. 

“As am I,” she said softly. She took a breath, and the softness faded to be replaced with grim determination. “If you don’t object, I will remain topside, to coordinate a retreat and regrouping should the worst occur.” She turned to Roslyn and met her gaze. “Are you able to leave the eluvian open?”

“I think so,” she said, fighting past the reality of what Leliana implied. Should the worst occur, and Roslyn die in the fighting, Leliana would need to return to Skyhold as quickly as possible. Someone had to keep fighting Coryphea. “I’m going to ask Cassandra to stay as well.”

Leliana arched a brow. “She will not like that.”

“I know she won’t.” She frowned, not looking forward to the upcoming conversation. “But that’s what all of this was about, right? Doing what we hate?” She tried to give Leliana a smile, but there was something tense in her expression, something pained. “Right. I suppose this is goodbye for now, then.”

“Maker light your path, Roslyn.”

“And yours, Leliana.”

She had turned, and was nearly at the edge of the platform, when Leliana called in a breathless voice, “Does He speak to you?”

Roslyn felt a frisson of energy lance down her spine. The amulet sitting under her armor seemed to burn and tremble. She turned back slowly, finding Leliana’s expression one of pain. “The Maker?”

“I know it sounds insane, but I thought…” Leliana frowned. “I have wondered, since the Conclave, if you had been given any reason for all this madness. A _reason_ for Justinia’s death. Andraste guides you, that I know to be true, but…”

Something deep within her heart twisted in sympathy. She recognized the agonized longing in Leliana’s voice, the painful searching for some truth to explain the world’s cruelty. Her desperation. 

“The Maker has not spoken to me, no,” she finally murmured, not knowing whether to approach and comfort her, or leave her be. Leliana was still largely an unknown entity to Roslyn. Though, she admitted, she was starting to become clearer. The picture of a woman of deep faith hardened by years of disappointment and loss. 

Something closed off in Leliana’s expression as she smiled. “No, He would not, would He? He has turned His back on us.” She shook her head, looking out over the southern expanse. Framed amidst the rising purple and orange light, the shadows grew sharp under her hood. “I thought He spoke to me once, you know. He told me of a great darkness, a shadow which would pass over the world and destroy all that was good and beautiful. One moment, the world was full of song, and then—nothing.” Her light blue eyes snapped up, looking overbright. Not for the first time, Roslyn was reminded of the glittering blue of lyrium in the depths of her spymaster’s eyes. “I used to believe He was warning me of the Blight. Now, I am not so sure.”

The wind moved between them, carrying a chill that sank deep into Roslyn’s bones. “Leliana,” she started, only to be cut off by the sound of a horn blowing. High and clear, nothing like the deep sound of the hordes marching on Haven. 

The horn of the Inquisition. 

“Your soldiers await, Inquisitor,” Leliana said softly, turning her back one last time. 

Roslyn hesitated, Leliana’s words stirring dread in their wake. 

A great darkness. Silence. 

The amulet warmed against her skin as she returned to her inner circle, but she ignored it. Questions to be answered later. After she had stopped the Wardens. “Cassandra,” she called, waving for her to follow her down a side passage. “A word.”

She joined at once, a smile breaking out over her face when they were alone. “Oh, Roslyn, I am so happy for you. I _knew_ that if you two just got over your obstinance for a moment—”

“Cassandra,” she murmured, pressing a hand to her friend’s lips, “please stop. Thank you, truly. One day I promise to tell you all about it.”

Cassandra’s eyes were still bright, but she blushed something fierce. “Well, that’s—of course if you wish to, I will not object…”

Roslyn almost smiled at her discomfort. It was a miracle, but the prospect of discussing her sex life with Cassandra Pentaghast wasn’t the _most_ abhorrent prospect to her anymore. 

They stood in silence for a moment. Cassandra’s excitement faded as she read the expression in Roslyn’s eyes. “What’s wrong?” she asked flatly.

Roslyn laughed in discomfort. “Nothing gets past you. Truly.”

Another moment of silence. 

“You are not planning on asking me to do what I think you are,” Cassandra started, her voice controlled. “Because if you are—”

“Someone has to stay behind.”

“Leliana is staying behind.”

“Someone I trust.”

“You trust Leliana.”

Roslyn took a deep breath. “I do, but—”

“No.”

“Cassandra—”

“Absolutely not,” Cassandra said sharply, stepping toward her with an expression close to fury. “I will not stay here while you risk your life on the front lines. What if something happens to you and I am not there?”

“That’s exactly why I need you to stay _here_ ,” Roslyn urged, forcing herself not to get angry. She knew where it was coming from, this fierce protectiveness. Cassandra cared for her, deeply, and she felt the same. If their situations were reversed, Roslyn would have never let the Seeker out of her sight. 

But the situation was not reversed, and she was the one making the decisions.

Cassandra’s face contorted in incredulity. “That makes no sense!”

“Of course it does,” Roslyn said softly. “If something happens to me, the Inquisition will need a leader.”

Cassandra froze, eyes growing wide. 

“Think on it, Cassandra. We’ve gotten lucky so far. I haven’t managed to die, yet, but that can’t remain true forever. Someone has step in if I’m unable, or the Inquisition will crumble.”

Cassandra shook her head. “You cannot ask this of me.”

“I can, and I am,” Roslyn urged. “I don’t expect you to sit on the sidelines all the time. Maker knows, you’re the most capable warrior I’ve ever had the pleasure of fighting alongside, but…” She swallowed her unease. “I have a bad feeling about this, Cassandra.”

Cassandra’s jaw clenched, her high, regal cheekbones gathering shadows as she fought to keep her expression calm. “I would be by your side, Roslyn.”

Warmth and affection blossomed in her chest, and fought the urge to pull the woman into a hug. “And I by yours,” she murmured. She bit her lip, blinking her eyes against the sudden rush of emotion. “But I…if I die, I want you to take over. I wouldn’t trust anyone else. I’m asking both as your friend and as the woman you chose to lead this Inquisition of yours. Officially.”

Silence passed between them. The banners of the Inquisition flapped in the breeze. The sounds of metal clanking, of thousands of soldiers readying to march, filled her chest. The mists of the Korcari Wilds seemed to part, and she knew she was right. 

She trusted her council, but Cassandra held her faith. It was Cassandra who had shown her she could be more than a pawn. Cassandra who had made the effort, all those months ago, to be her friend. Cassandra who had jumped in the way of a blasted trebuchet, and nearly died to save her life. 

“Please,” she finally murmured, when it looked like the other woman would not agree.

Cassandra crossed her arms, looking down in resignation. “Fine. This once. You and I will discuss where, exactly, I am to be in the future.”

Roslyn grinned. “For someone who was all too willing to step down to let me lead, you’re very bad at taking direction.”

Cassandra’s jaw feathered, and concern softened her eyes. “If you die, Roslyn, I will never forgive you.”

At that, Roslyn laughed, and gave the woman a soft peck on the cheek. “Don’t worry, Cassandra,” she murmured, tucking in her thin braid where it had come loose around her ear, “I have no intention of dying today.”

 

~  ✧ ~

 

The moment she stepped through the last eluvian, Roslyn fought the urge to flee. 

The Deep Roads under Crestwood had been nothing compared to this. The immediate shift in smell from fresh, pleasant air in the space between the eluvians to something closer to rot, a deep, cold sweetness that clung to her lungs and sank into her armor, made it hard to breathe. Her chest constricted, but she forced her anxiety not to show on her face. 

She was meant to be leading her people. Not cowering in the dark. 

The process of bringing thousands of soldiers through the eluvians was testing, not only because the majority of them suffered from the adverse effects of their lingering magic. Only the elves seemed unaffected as the rest moved at a snail’s pace. None of them seemed to be in any danger of expiring, as Solas and Isahn confirmed when they examined the magic. Both seemed to think that whatever the elves had worked on this place, it would not kill anyone else who dared to use them, only make them loathe every second they spent between the mirrors. 

Once her soldiers were out in the Deep Roads, they began to recover, though she still called the order to wait for everyone to gather themselves. They could spare an hour. She waited at the edge of a half-hewn corridor, the lines cut through the stone chipped and scarred after so many years of neglect. Dwarven runes ran along the walls, ending at a drop that fell into a chasm which didn’t end for hundreds of feet, the bottom only visible because of the slow washing back and forth of a river which glowed faintly blue. 

“I’m still waiting for you to explain how you did that, you know.”

She smiled as Dorian joined her, his skin pallid and sweat beading on his temples. At least he wasn’t wheezing anymore. “I told you, it was—”

“A keystone, yes,” he waved her away, “I know what you told me. I meant _how_ you used it. It shouldn’t work. Usually these kind of resonant artifacts were opened with a passphrase or a bit of blood. If it were only one mirror, I would understand, but you seem to be able to use it for any you deem fit to pass through.” He frowned, eyeing her speculatively as he slumped against a rock. “Perhaps it has something to do with your knack for opening doors.”

She held his gaze, unable to forget the way his eyes had lacked any recognition of their conversation the previous day. “You could ask Solas. He’ll know more than I will.”

Dorian frowned, shooting a dark look over his shoulder to where Solas was conversing with Cole and Varric, the last of which looked somehow more uncomfortable here, in the Deep Roads, than he had in the World Between. 

“I did,” he muttered. “He was less than helpful. Surprising, I know.”

Roslyn smiled when she saw Solas chuckle at something Varric had said. “It might be a touchy subject. The eluvians are elven. Ancient, probably. I’m sure he’s not thrilled I just shoved a bunch of humans through them.” Guilt made her throat tighten. The secret would not stay hidden for long, she knew. She trusted her soldiers, but news of a network of mirrors that would allow people to travel across countries in a single night would spread. No matter that no one should be able to use them without a keystone, she knew that people would try. 

“He’s probably more than happy to allow you anything you like,” Dorian mused, combing back his hair and drinking deep from his water skin. “I mean, what with you two—”

“Do you really want to tease me while we’re standing next to a hundred foot drop, Dorian?”

“What a terror you are,” he said with a laugh, though he did stand and take one careful step back from the ledge. “Truly, you have my deepest congratulations on the consummation of your frustratingly coy romantic entanglement of these last seven months.”

She met his gaze, smiling despite herself. “Thank you.”

His answering smile was tight, something hedged in his expression. 

“Are you all right?”

“I… I’m not sure, to be completely honest.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “This keystone of yours. It doesn’t have any connection to your amulet? Only,” his brow furrowed in frustration, “I seem to be having trouble putting the two together. And there’s… Maker’s breath, this is hard to say out loud, but I can’t help but feel as if you and I spoke of something…connected. Something that continues to escape me no matter how much I attempt to think on it.”

Roslyn stared at him, not quite knowing how to respond. Her mind was blank, the only sound she could focus on the soft swish and roll of water in the abyss below their ledge.

“Tell me you understand something I’m saying to you,” he muttered, alarm in his eyes. 

“Dorian,” she started, only to break off at the thought of having to explain everything to him again, now. There wasn’t time. “I do,” she murmured, looking over her shoulder at the gathering of her soldiers. “But I can’t explain now. After. I swear.”

Relief made him laugh. “Bless you. I thought I’d gone mad.”

“I know the feeling,” she muttered, tugging him back to the others. She caught Solas’s searching gaze, and gave him a small smile. 

There were a lot of things she needed to do when it was finally time to return to the open air. 

 

~  ✧ ~

 

The lost dwarven thaig sat in the center of a great cavern. Larger than anything she’d seen before in her life, the ceilings arched hundreds of feet over her head, so tall she could barely make out the details even with the wolf’s heightened senses. Every sound seemed magnified, every movement echoing through the silent air. But she didn’t need the wolf’s sight to see the full extent of the thaig, because pulsing like a web of sparking blood, lyrium was threaded through its entirety. 

She had the acute feeling of stepping back through time, to the moment she and Dorian had fallen into a nightmare future. The web of red lyrium looked much the same as it had under Redcliffe Castle, though this was much larger. The thaig was covered with it, some red, some blue, casting the entire cavern in a strange chiaroscuro of light. It wove in and among the remains of the structures, choking the crumbled towers which stood at the edge of the abyss. Far, far below, Roslyn thought she could hear more moving water, a hint of something high pitched like a whistling breeze.

She crouched at the opening of a small cave where the path curved down across the cavern wall, trying to see another way down to the thaig.

“There’s no other path big enough to get our soldiers down,” she muttered, squinting into the dim light. 

Beside her, Rylen let out a grunt of frustration. “The twins said there are a few roads to the north of the thaig, though I don’t rightly remember which way north is down here in the damn—”

“To the left,” Harding said pleasantly from his other side. “Should be true north where that sentry tower’s broken in half.” She pointed. 

“And how the fuck do you know that?” he asked, frowning. “Those magic mirrors might have shat us out in any direction they wanted.”

“Dwarves can sense the cardinal directions through the stone.”

Rylen blinked, and then gave her a sharp look. “You can’t. Can you?”

Harding continued over his confusion, smiling pleasantly, “The twins say we have two viable options to sneak into the thaig, if that’s what we’re after. One,” she nodded toward the tower she’d pointed out, “will lead us into the lower district, where they think the bulk of the wardens will be housed. The rest of the thaig is apparently not structurally sound enough to house them. The second—” 

She didn’t get to finish as a great tremble tore through the ground. Roslyn braced herself against the rock at her back, clenching her jaw as large stalactites broke from the ceiling over their heads and fell with a cloud of dust into the abyss below.

A hand closed around hers. She didn’t look, but she threaded her fingers through Solas’s where he stood on her other side, squeezing tight as the entire world shook for what felt like hours. 

When the last of the tremors stopped, Roslyn waited for the distant sound of debris striking stone or water. She didn’t let go of Solas’s hand. 

“The second,” Harding started again, as casual as if they were having this conversation seated at a sunlit table for lunch, “is more dangerous, but also more straightforward.” She pointed toward a cliff which jutted out from the rock to their right. “It would drop you straight onto the heads of the people who keep making those tremors happen. Presumably. If Qestyra is right about what she thinks they’re doing.”

Roslyn didn’t answer for a moment, still waiting for the impact of the debris. It didn’t come, however, and some small part of her which had been constantly shrieking since she walked through the eluvian into this kingdom of stone began to pound against her breast, begging for her to get out of this Maker-damned place. 

She swallowed back her fear. “How long do we have before they spot us?”

Rylen grimaced. “Not long. I’m surprised they haven’t yet, to be honest. We’re not exactly traveling in stealth.” He paused. “Whatever those bastards are doing down there, it’s got their undivided attention.”

Exhaling to loosen her throat, she said, “We can’t simply march down into the thaig. They’ll pick us all off before we reach the main gate. You need a distraction.” She bit the inside of her lip, considering. “Rylen, do you remember our first mission together?”

He gave her a hard look out of the corner of his eye. “When you got shot with a few arrows and nearly exploded? Aye, my lady, I do.”

She felt the faintest flicker of Solas’s aura, amusement brushing at her hand, and grinned. “This time, what if I ask you to stay behind and let me sneak in without you?”

She assembled her team quickly—Harding, Solas, Dorian, Sera, Isahn, Cole, Hawke, Qestyra, Varric, and two of the Grey Wardens, Aeducan and Carver. The latter had been volunteered by his brother, who, true to his word, had not let Carver out of his sight since they had left Ostagar. It was rather adorable, actually, to see the large bulwark of a man, in all his fine Grey Warden regalia, being herded like an unruly aurochs by his overly protective older brother. Stroud and Rainier would remain with Rylen to help direct Inquisition troops should fighting begin in truth.

They picked their way carefully along the wall, hiding behind Solas and Cole’s distortion to help them remain hidden. She didn’t ask how Cole was helping Solas, but she guessed it had something to do with the way he managed to appear and disappear from sight whenever he chose. 

Solas walked before Roslyn. Though she never doubted his balance, nor his skill, she couldn’t help but watch his every step, ready to pull him back at a moment’s notice. The blackness of the abyss below them only seemed to grow as they moved. She did her best not to look down, to ignore the familiarity she felt at the sight of it. 

The hunger of the void she’d faced when closing the Breach. The black shadow on top the Tevinter watch tower. 

The figure in the darkness under Hargrave Keep. 

She could not ignore the certainty that it was all connected anymore.

It took them nearly an hour to pick their way over the small cliff, the cave where they had left the rest of the Inquisition behind vanished into the rest of the cavern wall. They slowed as they walked over the thaig proper, waiting for any sign that they’d been spotted. 

“Get. Me. Off. This. _Shelf_ ,” Sera muttered over Roslyn’s shoulder. “Before the ground decides to shake its tits off again.”

Roslyn grinned, chancing a look over the side of the cliff. Below them was a wide courtyard which sat between two large statues whose face had long worn down to crumbled stone. The sounds of soldiers drifted to her over the silence, the steady clank of metal, the dim shuffle of boots, the crackle of campfires, but she saw no one patrolling the thaig beneath her. 

Carver began to unwind the length of rope they’d brought with them, securing it to a shard of rock to allow them to make the thirty foot drop.

A flicker of torchlight caught her attention—someone was coming down the adjacent road. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” she muttered, meeting Solas’s gaze. “Keep up the distortion until everyone’s down.”

He nodded, and she stepped off the cliff. Doing her best to muffle the sound of her force barrier, she winced as the energy hit the ground, slowing her fall but displacing air like a slap of wind. She rolled to a stop beside one of the large statues, pulling her magic back in before anyone else could notice it. And waited. 

The footsteps faltered, and a muffled voice said, “Thought I heard something.”

Another voice answered, but Roslyn couldn’t quite hear what they said. She took a deep breath as the torchlight came near, raising her barrier and readying an arcane prison. Her sword hilt hummed as she wrapped her right hand around its grip. Two figures approached, both in Grey Warden armor. One wore a helmet with the silverite wings on either side, while the other was bare-headed. She caught a glimpse of long, black hair and pale skin before they began to move past her. 

The second stopped as he rounded the corner of the road, eyes going wide as he saw, presumably, warriors appearing out of thin air. Before he could draw breath, Roslyn moved. The first was sheathed in white light, her prison slipping under his armor to cut off his voice. She released her sword, trying her best to dim the energy’s brilliance, and leveled it squarely at the bare-headed warden’s throat. 

He froze, eyes going hard, hand halted in the act of reaching for his quiver of arrows. 

Roslyn’s heart beat loudly in the sudden silence. “If either of you scream, I will kill you.”

The warden with her sword at his neck clenched his jaw, but said nothing. The other seemed to be desperately trying to break from her prison. She tightened it, and heard a soft, strangled whimper. 

She prodded her mark and held it up, letting it dance briefly across the ground between her and the two wardens. 

The pale warden’s eyes narrowed. “You’re the Inquisitor.”

“You know who I am,” she said, smiling slightly. “Good. I’m guessing you also know why I’m here.”

He nodded.

“So here’s the part where you get to live.” She lowered her sword slightly, watching his hand for any sign of movement. “I have no quarrel with the Grey Wardens. I only want to stop Clarel. If you stand down and surrender yourself, my soldiers won’t harm you.”

Something hardened in the warden’s expression, and Roslyn readied her sword. 

“ _Nate_?”

The warden’s eyes shot to the left, and widened. “Hestia?”

Aeducan jogged up, relief in her sharp face. “Ancestors be praised, I thought you’d be at Weisshaupt.”

“And I thought you were dead.”

She gave him a fleeting smile. “Not yet.”

Roslyn looked to Aeducan, waiting. 

The dwarf met her gaze. “Nate’s an old friend.”

She raised an eyebrow as the rest of their group joined them. 

The warden lowered his hand slowly, flipping up his palms in surrender. “I have no intention of fighting the Inquisition. Wardens might have a death wish, but there’s no honor in defending murder and madness.”

Roslyn took her time sheathing her sword. “Is that a view more of you share?”

“Howe,” Carver said, walking up and pulling the warden into a hug. “Bleeding Void, it’s good to see you.”

“And you, Hawke,” the warden said with what looked like a begrudging smile. “Can’t say I’m surprised to see you mixed up in this.”

“You know me,” Carver said, laughing. “I get bored if I don’t have something to hit every few days.”

Behind him, Hawke scowled something fierce. “Oh yes, it’s all very funny. Look at this nice little reunion we’re all having here in a collapsing cave. I fancy myself a spot of tea and a good chat before we’re squashed by falling rocks.”

Varric reached up to pat his friend on the arm. “Easy, buddy—you’re still ‘Hawke’ to me.”

“I’m Hawke to _everyone_ ,” he mumbled. “That’s kind of my _thing_.”

“And what of your friend?” Roslyn asked Howe, considering the warden still locked in her arcane prison. “Are you interested in stopping this madness?”

She let the magic release ever so slightly, giving him room to speak. 

“You’re…a _traitor_ …Howe,” he managed. “You don’t…deserve—”

“And you’re a bastard, Davis, who should have been smothered in your sleep as a child,” Howe said grimly, unsheathing a knife from his belt. He looked to Roslyn in an unspoken question. 

She released the arcane prison, and before the warden could crumple to the ground, Howe caught him and sunk his knife into the man’s neck. He guided the twitching body to the ground, and before he went still, Howe divested the man of his sword and shield, handing the first to Carver and buckling the second to his back before releasing his bow. He straightened, efficiently cleaning his knife, and held out his hand to Roslyn. “Warden-Constable Nathaniel Howe, your worship. Maker forgive me, but I think you’ve arrived too late to be much help.”


	49. Mountains Are Crumbling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Into the Darkness" by The Phantoms](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hxU52jJs0co&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&index=52&t=0s) (YOU KNOW I HAD TO PUT THIS SONG IN HERE SOMEWHERE)

Roslyn looked down on the courtyard filled with wardens, the bright illumination of red lyrium making her wolf bare its teeth in discomfort. 

In the center of the thaig was a circular pavilion lined in austere stone columns. Their design was starkly different than the surrounding complex, different than anything she’d seen in the Deep Roads. Dwarven architecture favored sharp, geometric lines, austere buildings carved with runic symbols and dark stone, lyrium etched into the foundations of each structure. The highways were large, imposing—everything designed to make one feel small.

The pavilion looked delicate in comparison. A tiled floor sat beneath the clear, blue water, shimmering white and then violet as light refracted off its surface, a mosaic inlaid with pearl and colored glass in deepest blues and reds. The water seemed to be different as well. From the distance, she couldn’t be sure, but she thought it might contain some kind of lyrium.

“It’s elven,” she murmured, trying to identify the design through the trembling surface of the water. It looked as if there was a bare head, centered in a circle of black tile. The only thing she could be sure of were the long, pointed ears.

Beside her, she felt Solas’s tension in his barrier—flat and unyielding. He was unnerved. 

Dorian hummed on her other side. “I think you’re right. Those statues certainly aren’t dwarven.” He nodded toward the twin statues on the other side of the pavilion. 

They were not so large as to draw the eye in the midst of such dwarven propensity for size, but there was something incongruous about them. They depicted what might have been a woman, or a serpent, with fanned wings and a lithe, curving body. Their hands arched to form a kind of gateway which stood at the edge of a long, pristine bridge covered in the same intricate mosaic path. 

Roslyn stared at them, trying not to let her unease get the better of her. And yet electricity still shot down her spine. The place in the center of her chest seemed to ignite and spark. Wings. Women with wings. 

_“Venavis sa Sule’tasal Umethasran. Nar mirthadra Mythal.”_

She turned to see Isahn staring down at the statues with an unreadable expression on his face, black eyes bright in the near darkness. He looked at her, and gave her a sharp smile. “Turn back from the Guardians of this Forsaken Place. In Mythal’s name,” he added, voice going rough. She held his gaze, trying to read the tension in his expression. She fought the urge to look between him and Solas. Why were both of them so uncomfortable with this, when they hadn’t seemed bothered in the slightest by the eluvians?

“Mythal?” Sera asked, frowning as she looked up from a collection of flasks spread across her lap. One of them, sickly yellow and smelling of burnt lemon, was smoking. “That’s one of the gods, right?”

Roslyn turned back in surprise, noting a similarly shocked look on both Solas and Isahn’s faces. 

“What?” Sera asked, lip curling. “I know things. She’s the one that mothers pray to before they pop out their kids.”

Isahn considered her, surprise softening the severity of his expression. “Do you invoke her name in the alienages?”

“ _I_ invoke _nothing_ , thank you.” Sera gathered up her flasks, giving them all a sour look. “Would you look at yourselves? One mention of gods and you’ve got tents for pants.”

Isahn watched her go with a little grunt of laughter. 

Solas did not seem so amused. He turned back to stare at the statues, the only sign of his unease the whites of his knuckles where he clutched his staff. 

“I thought these doors were supposed to be dwarven,” she asked Qestyra. 

The dwarf had been unnervingly quiet during their brief discussion, watching them all with a slight smile. Roslyn was starting to think she was doing it on purpose to make her uncomfortable. 

“The Doors of Delgatan were so named because the Paragon Delagra found one set and made it her life’s work to learning their purpose. I never said she made them.”

“So, what did she learn?” Dorian prompted.

The dwarf shrugged, the thick braids of her hair bowing in the center over her shoulders. “No one knows. She died before she returned to Thaig Hormak with her findings.”

“Well, that’s helpful,” he muttered, pacing. Little violet sparks danced around his fingers—a nervous habit he’d developed over the past few months away from Skyhold. 

“Those doors are different than the ones Alexius used,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Though, this,” she gestured to the pulsing web of red lyrium all around them, “is rather familiar.”

She looked to Dorian and saw his mirrored dread. _Like stepping back through time._ She frowned. _Or forward?_

“The _mak-gonguneth_ are corrupting the heart beneath us,” Qestyra murmured, her voice soft, but with an alarmingly chill undertone. She moved her gaze to Aeducan, and held it. “Their blood sacrifice is calling the tainted song.”

Aeducan’s jaw clenched so hard, Roslyn was surprised she couldn’t hear her teeth break. “And what is that supposed to mean?” the dwarf asked.

Qestyra pointed at the center grouping of wardens, past the hundreds gathered in the lower tiers directly below their vantage point, where a figure robed in black seemed to be directing the proceedings. 

The wolf rose without prompting, expanding it and Roslyn’s aura. A sick, rolling hum broke over her tongue with the taste of rust. The sweet vibration of lyrium clashed with the whispers seeping up from the thaig like a miasma. Whispers of those broken souls who had been sacrificed to fuel the creation of whatever Bard was using to open the doors. 

“I don’t know about all that,” Nathaniel said, looking thoroughly uncomfortable, “but Bard and Clarel have been building up their power for nearly a week, trying to syphon blood magic into that shardstone. Every few hours, they’ve been…asking for volunteers. Sacrifices,” he added at Roslyn’s hard look. “It’s the thing we wardens do best, after all.”

A large boulder sat at the edge of the mosaic pool, reflecting with a dull metallic sheen, same as the shard she’d broken under Keep Hargrave. As if on cue, a shudder spread through the cavern—a sick swell of blood magic assaulting Roslyn’s senses. 

Red light built around the boulder, the shards underneath glowing sickly grey. A beam of energy shot from the center of the boulder and slammed into the space between the two statues guarding the bridge. The ground shook, rock and rubble breaking from the ceiling far over their heads as the entire cavern trembled. As Roslyn watched, she saw the statues seem to come alive—a shivering blue aura spread from the center disturbance in the air like water being soaked up by a piece of cloth. Cracks shown in the marble. Blue light warred with red. 

Were the statues themselves lyrium, or simply reinforced by it?

The beam died, though the tremors continued for another ten seconds. In the aftermath, she felt the entire cavern pulse with energy, and dread thudded into her stomach as she watched the web of red lyrium grow. Sure enough, on the far right statue, a single vein of red pulsed between the blue before it faded again to marble. 

“The barrier will not hold long,” Solas murmured, expression flat and focused. 

Roslyn took a steadying breath, and nodded. “Let’s just hope Clarel can be persuaded to see reason.”

She caught the concern in each Grey Warden’s face as she looked over them, and thought, _Andraste guide us._

Her people spread out into position, and Roslyn hunkered down to wait. Fear coiled thickly in her throat. But it was not fear for herself. 

“Cole,” she murmured, grip clenching and unclenching over her sword. 

He arrived in a puff of black smoke, eyes glowing at her from under the brim of his hat. 

“Keep them safe for me.” She looked at him, urging him to sense her concern even though she knew her thoughts were safe from his touch. “Whatever happens, keep…make sure they all get out of here safely.”

For a moment, he said nothing. His eyes glimmered with silver, and she realized with a jolt that it was tears. “You think he’s waiting for you behind the doors.”

A stone fell into the pit of her stomach. “Who?”

“The one we found under the keep. In the darkness. The one who took something from you.”

Heart beating so fast she could barely breathe, she whispered. “You can sense…him?”

Cole’s hands were shaking, but he didn’t look away. “He talks to me when everything else is quiet. He’s old. Very old. He knows things. Pieces of whispers lost to time, tearing at the very fabric of the world. He knows things about me…about everyone.” The illumination of his face seemed to get brighter, the edges of his form flickering like candlelight caught by a breeze. “Secrets and lies and fear like snakes in the dark. He says we’re alike. He says I’m the same. He wants me to go back, to help him, to—”

Roslyn took his hand, anger breaking through her own terror at the look in Cole’s face. She pulled on that intangible kindness which was the very essence of him, on the dim, lovely light in his eyes, on _him_ , the boy who had helped her without thought for himself—just as she’d reinforced the wolf. The edges of his form solidified, and he exhaled shakily. One tear slid down his face, which was almost fuller in the cheek. He looked, for one moment, more human. 

“He will not take you,” she said, voice coming out as a low rasp. “I won’t let him.”

Cole’s expression flickered from relief to determination. “Thank you, Roslyn.”

She gave him a fierce smile and cupped his cheek. “You belong to no one, Cole. Remember that.”

He nodded, and shifted back into the shadows. “I’ll keep them safe,” he whispered, voice already disembodied. “I swear it.”

Roslyn stared at the place he’d vanished into, shoving down the last of her fear. 

So the figure in the darkness was real. She was not hallucinating. 

And if he was real, she could kill him.

 

~  ✧ ~

 

Roslyn stepped out of the shadows behind the main bulk of the warden army, sword lit, left hand raised. Ready. It took the nearest wardens a moment to see her, distracted by the commotion near the center pavilion. 

Some backed away, frightened, but most drew their weapons and charged. 

She felt a small thrill as the wolf rose with her. Adrenaline pumped through her blood. _Shall we?_

Her wave of force knocked a good twenty wardens back. Others staggered forward only to trip and stumble over a string of repulsion glyphs. She felt each of them break and blow over her skin, tasting Solas’s aura in their unmaking. A spray of arrows and crossbow bolts came from the darkness over Roslyn’s left shoulder to clatter at their feet, driving them further back. For good measure, a double wall of fire erupted to either side of her as she walked forward, curtesy of Dorian and Isahn. 

Roslyn stepped through the curling smoke, waiting for the panic to die down so they could hear what she had to say. “ _Grey Wardens,_ ” she shouted, raising her voice over the rush of alarm, silencing the last of the cries and whispers, “you have been fooled. The sorcerer, Bard, is using you.” For good measure, she leveled her sword up at the pavilion, satisfied when more than one followed her direction.

The thaig was so silent, she could hear the rushing of wind and water over the distant groaning and breaking of stone. And somewhere, deep below her, she felt the abyss pulse. 

A figure stepped out of the center group—an older woman with close-cropped grey hair, wearing a mage’s Warden robes. “Inquisition,” she called, her voice high and cutting, but laden with fatigue, “we had wondered when you would arrive. You have been looking for us for some time now.”

“Clarel,” Roslyn answered, shoving aside the unsettling thought that the old woman sounded rather like Fiona, “I know you think you’re doing what’s right—”

“We are the _only_ ones who can do what is right!” Clarel shouted. A murmur ran through the waiting wardens—agreement, anger. “We bleed for the world and what does it do in return but name us _zealots?_ You could never understand what we sacrifice to ensure that Thedas carries on.”

“Clarel, listen to her!” Aeducan walked up beside Roslyn, her voice like a clarion call. Murmurs of alarm and shock swept through the crowd. 

“ _We_ have not forgotten our oaths,” the old woman answered. “You took a vow, Field Commander. A vow you have broken!”

“Is it part of your oath to serve Coryphea?” Roslyn shouted, unable to curb her anger. “I thought the Grey Wardens fought _against_ darkspawn, not _with_ them.”

Silence rippled across the cavern. 

Clarel’s voice was barely audible in her shock. “Coryphea? She is dead.”

“Apparently not,” Hawke stepped up on Roslyn’s other side, a swipe of blood across his nose. “Trust me on this. I thought she was dead too.”

“The Inquisition does not want to kill wardens,” Roslyn shouted, looking over the soldiers for a sign that they were unwilling to fight. In some faces, she saw doubt, the stirrings of fear, but almost every one of them looked ready. It made her stomach flip. “Lay down your weapons, and your lives will be spared.”

Finally, Bard spoke. “You crawl down behind us like scavengers looking to pick clean the carcass of these fearless wardens, and you offer them _mercy?_ You are boastful, girl, but tell me—how do you plan to combat the coming darkness with no bulwark to shield you from its hunger? These wardens are all that stand between you and oblivion. You should not question them. You should _thank_ them.”

Cries of assent echoed through the crowd. The front lines shuffled the slightest bit forward. _We’re losing them_. Her fist clenched around the hilt of her sword. The wolf lowered its head in a growl. _Maker’s mercy, this is going to happen._

“That pathetic whelp is behind all of this,” Carver shouted, pointing to Bard where he lurked behind the shardstone. “I should know. I was rotting in his dungeon until the Inquisitor saved me.”

“The Calling we hear is false, Clarel,” Aeducan finished, stepping forward. “It’s a fabrication.”

Like a slithering black snake, Bard edged into the light. The edges of his tattered cloak seemed to stain the delicate mosaic under his feet. “Would you bet every warden’s life, the life of every soul in Thedas, that it’s all a lie, Clarel? On nothing more than a young girl’s word? She has come to armies before, offering aid, tidings which might seem like wisdom, only to break them over her knee.”

The memory of Envy’s voice ghosted through her head. _Break them_. _Take them._

“Tell them, girl, what became of the Templar Order. The Mage Rebellion. How many other peoples must you sunder and plunder before you sate your hunger for power?”

The words gathered in her breast like a storm. Tearing through her like knives through silk. 

_Bend them to your will_ , Envy’s voice whispered into the back of her mind. 

Roslyn raised her hand, gathering the threads of the Veil around her. She would not let the taunts of a stinking worm stop her. Not now, after everything. “I can do more than just words.” 

It was harder than it should have been to rip through the Veil. So deep under the earth, the Fade felt too far away, like she was reaching up through every stone and rock over her head to bring down the sky itself. But when the anchor answered her and the air rent open, she breathed a sigh of relief. The Fade buoyed her, refreshing her mana and lending her crystal clear sight. It reminded her of who she was, who she could be. 

She only held the tear open for a moment, just long enough to let its power wash over the wardens, but her attention caught on something in the distance. 

The barrier rippled with purple light, fed by the statues on either side, as if answering the call of her magic. 

The statues which hummed with lyrium, threads of dark red amidst the blue—the statue of a woman, with wings of brilliant light. 

A winged woman. 

_Andraste preserve me_.

The world seemed to shift and slide under her feet as threads of memory gathered up around her like a tapestry. A tapestry decorated with a silver-winged beast.

The wolf mended the tear in the Veil. Roslyn fought the urge to collapse. Weakness pulled at her limbs, but she kept herself standing. 

Voices of alarm and fear pulled her back to herself. The Grey Wardens before her stumbled back, watching her with clear, terrified eyes. But the anger had broken. Doubt washed over the army.

“Bard is working with a powerful demon to trick you,” she shouted, and the din grew quiet again. “The Calling is fabricated. He doesn’t want to help you, he wants to _use_ you to unleash whatever lurks behind those doors. None of you are—”

A tremor went through the ground, cutting her off. She looked over the heads of the army to Bard, alarmed, but the shardstone was not glowing. There was no sense of powerful blood magic to overwhelm her. Only the red lyrium, and the pull of the abyss. 

Aeducan tensed, snapped her head to the right, and in a wave of unnerving synchronicity, each and every one of the thousand wardens followed her gaze. For a moment, Roslyn thought she heard marching, or pounding—the rallying of the Inquisition? She hadn’t given Rylen the signal yet…

The wall on the far side of the thaig exploded. 

_“DARKSPAWN!”_

The cry went out across the mass of wardens, turning as one to face the shower of stone and rubble. Tendrils of grey and green magic curled out from the opening, throwing out an aura of reeking acid, the rotting stench of corpses and death. 

Black shapes swarmed through the opening like rats, and her stomach flipped. There were so many, and they just kept coming, scrambling over the ruined thaig like insects.

She pulled herself back from the brink of fear and raised her hand. A jet of white light arced up into the cavern—the sign for Rylen to charge. 

Any resistance to the Inquisition was forgotten as the darkspawn descended through the outer levels of the thaig, coming and coming like waves of black water. The Grey Wardens drew their weapons as one, but there were only a scant thousand of them. Not enough. Not _nearly_ enough. 

Roslyn knew a moment of primal fear—the same primal fear she’d felt when she looked down on the valley to Haven. 

_So many._

“Get to Bard.”

Roslyn looked down. Aeducan had drawn her daggers, held at the ready as she walked forward. She met her gaze with a solemn nod. Roslyn saw no fear in her eyes, only acceptance. Grim, and bolstering. “May your Lady watch over you, Inquisitor.”

A cry went up from the wardens as they met the darkspawn, their voices lost in a sea of shrieking and howling. Roslyn had fought darkspawn in the Bannorn, but only a few at a time. Seeing them now arrayed before here, she understood how a nation might take centuries to forget such horror. 

“ _To me_ ,” she cried, tugging a lyrium vial from her belt and downing its contents, hyper aware of the dark vial sitting next to it—the one she’d taken from Bard’s room. She ignored a strange, fleeting urge to drink it as well. As her body sang with power, she launched forward, skirting around the backs of the wardens as they charged. The horns of the Inquisition sounded over the clash of armies. She prayed they would be enough. _Maker save us all._

She felt her companions fall in behind her, felt the snap and hum of Solas’s barrier as it reinforced hers. Out of the corner of her eye, the mass of darkspawn continued to swell. She caught glimpses of monsters in rusted, blacksteel armor. A deep, rumbling roar sounded over the crowd, and she felt the first bead of sweat slide down her back. _Not a dragon. Not a dragon. Just… something else._

A pulse of blood magic washed over her skin, distracting her from her fear. Her head snapped forward again just as she saw a red cloud disperse over the pavilion.

Bard stood in the center of twenty dead wardens, blood pooling and undulating in the air above his head. Rivers of it ran into the pool at his feet. Sparking and smoking where it contaminated the crystal blue water. He looked down and found her amidst the chaos, his painted black face streaked now with red seeping from between his broken teeth, and she felt his magic swell. 

The black arrow of energy flew through the air and smacked her barrier. It burned straight through with little resistance, and she stumbled as it stuck claws into her mind. The wolf snapped at them, breaking the tethers at once. The anchor rioted and threw green sparks onto the ground, but the black magic didn’t hold her. It didn’t plunge her into silence again. The inky tendrils died as she fought the urge to scream.

Roslyn gritted her teeth and ran, drawing on the wolf’s speed. Her body phased slightly at the edges as she moved, passing around wardens and darkspawn. The feeling was like gliding, her steps growing longer and longer until she wasn’t sure they were hitting the ground anymore, but skipping off the air. She didn’t stop to help, though she wanted to. She didn’t have time, and the wardens were better suited to fight these monsters anyway. Dimly, she was aware of Solas and Isahn stepping through the Fade at her back. 

She saw Bard’s second spell coming before it hit her, but only just. Slamming to a halt and throwing up a wall of arcane energy to combat it, she caught the very edge of the entropic cloud before Solas’s barrier surrounded her own. Fear and despair fluttered like a tattered silk scarf through her mind, but it only made her heart skip a beat. 

“ _Da’shyl_ —,” Isahn yelled, the brush of his aura of hounds baying at her heels.

“I’m fine,” she gritted out, calling on her sword again as she took the steps two at a time to reach the mosaic pool. Solas caught up with her, staff arcing already with electricity, Isahn a few yards behind him. Dimly, she felt Hawke and Dorian’s auras approaching, going slower, but heading in her direction. 

_This could have gone more smoothly_ , she thought, glaring up at Bard. 

He cocked his head, almost in begrudging praise, before he slammed his staff against the ground. 

The pulse of the red lyrium swelled, focused on the chipped mosaic at his feet. Red light formed around the head of his staff—topped, she now saw, with one, bleached white skull. 

“Get _down_ ,” she cried, pulling Solas out of the blast and shoving him up against a column as the energy lanced out, screaming of blood and chaos. She twisted, put her own back against the column, and prayed it would help shield them both. 

With Solas clasped to her chest and the pillar at her back, the energy spread around her like a maelstrom. It caught at the edges of her armor, searing the leather and scoring the length of her right vambrace. 

The blast was not as potent as the archdemon’s—for whatever Bard’s tricks, he didn’t seem to have the raw power of his mistress or her pet—but it still might have killed Solas. She knew firsthand what it could do to someone who wasn’t ready. Cassandra’s crumpled expression flashed at the front of her mind, blood seeping from her lips as she bled raw, red lyrium.

She let her forehead fall against the pelt strapped across Solas’s armor, breathing him in—the sweat and charcoal, the sweet, sharp scent of his aura—and released him. He turned around at once, flat alarm in his eyes as he looked her over. “ _Telemsena_ ,” he whispered, voice rough.

Her brow arched. “Save the lovely talk for later, you ass.” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

She ignored his clenched jaw and turned, searching for Isahn. To her immense relief, she saw that he’d ducked behind a fallen statue to avoid the blast. He leapt over the head of what might once have been a mighty dwarf, twin swords aflame. 

Spinning out from the column, Roslyn threw three shards of arcane energy toward Bard. Two of them glanced off a dome of rippling black energy, but the third struck. It slammed into his shoulder, pushing him back a few feet before he caught himself. More blood seeped onto the floor.

“ _Left_ ,” she shouted to Isahn, who obeyed at once, arcing around to flank Bard. Solas did the opposite, not waiting for her command. She felt them both ready spells, one of ice, one of fire—peppermint and oiled leather—and raised her own. 

She and Isahn were looking at each other, timing her force pull to his ball of fire, and so she saw his eyes widen in incomprehensible fear. His eyes flicked behind her—and she felt Solas’s aura change direction in the span of a moment, veering violently toward her. 

She stepped into the pool. 

And her vision went white. 

The cavern rocked under her feet as heat seared up around her. She screamed—pain cracked open her chest. Her knees buckled. Water, tasting at once of the heady sweetness of lyrium and the rusted pulse of its corrupted twin, washed into her mouth. She coughed, and blackness stained her hands. 

Whispers swarmed into her mind, turning to screams of pain, of agony. The weight of a hundred thousand voices nearly dragged her down into the depths of something dark and deep. She felt something grab hold of her mind and _clench_ —talons, searing talons—and she pushed, anything to rid herself of the chaos. She pushed with all her might, and that something broke. 

Red light moved into blue, joining for one moment to shine in the same eerie purple which had answered her anchor. It blinded her once more, and she blinked as she came back to her body. Kneeling in the center of the now empty pool, hands scrambling over the mosaic beneath her, she looked up.

Just in time to see the barrier shatter. 

The twin statues burst apart in shards of smoking lyrium. The thaig shuddered under the onslaught. Boulders fell down around them, crushing darkspawn and warden alike. 

_Maker, no_ , she thought—horror gripping her heart as she realized what she must have done, that she must have been the one to break the barrier—and then the wolf was there, pushing her upright, flooding her with power. She gasped as her mind cleared. 

A dark shape fled across the now unguarded bridge.

Someone hit the ground next to her—someone who smelled of rust and wine. 

“Up, now,” Hawke said, hauling her to her feet and dragging her forward. “Time to think about our mistakes later.”

“Solas,” she choked, turning around for some sign of him.

“Your hobo lover is fine. The pretty magister is helping him right now. You and I have got to stop that puss-sore from opening the doors before the entire cavern comes down around us.”

Roslyn gritted her teeth, forcing her fear for Solas out of her mind. He was fine. Hawke saw him get up. Dorian was with him. He would be fine. 

“Maferath’s lying ballsack, but this is _exhilarating_.”

She chanced a look at Hawke as she ran forward over the bridge.

He gave her a wide grin, meeting her stride for stride. His aura swelled and pulsed, and the wolf answered with its own shower of green sparks. 

His infectious glee soothing some of her dread, she pushed forward, racing for the black shape. 

Bard was far over the bridge now, and seemed to be outpacing them, somehow. The doors loomed nearly one hundred feet over her head, growing larger and larger the closer they got. Her chest burned and her lungs ached, but she kept running. She didn’t have time to think. She didn’t have time to breathe. 

If she had, she might have felt something else rise around her. Something under her feet, deep, down in the darkness of the abyss. Something awoken by the chaos. Something waiting.

With a cry of frustration, she pulled a flaming green boulder from the Fade and shot it toward Bard. He swerved, the edges of his cloak catching fire, and still he ran. Hawke conjured an entropic cloud to envelop the sorcerer, but it only seemed to make him stumble. The pulse of power trailed in his wake. Roslyn could see it like smoke in the wind. 

She felt every strike of her boots against the bridge like a hit to her gut. She had to be faster. She had to be _better_. She called on the wolf’s magic and warped the Veil around her, pushing, pulling at the air to get close enough to strike.

But it wasn’t enough.

Bard collapsed to the ground at the base of the doors, and lifted his hands. Black waves rippled and snaked up the door. Silence tugged at her aura. 

A soft crack went through the ground. A puff of mist curled as the doors opened ever so slightly. 

Roslyn took advantage of the sorcerer’s distraction to cage him in a prison of arcane light. He seized and soared up into the air, his staff clattering to the ground. But she couldn’t hold him. He slid out of her grip, throwing tendrils of black into her aura. She beat them off easily, but not fast enough to catch him before he slipped between the doors and into the darkness beyond. 

She knew she should go after him, but it was all she could do not to turn and run back over the bridge. She listened as Hawke cut up to her, breathing hard. She stared at the mist curling innocuously from the still open doors.

The sounds of war drifted to her over the bridge, and she turned. The thaig looked so small, as if the pain and anger of those fighting had diminished, somehow. 

Her heart pounded against her sternum as dread seeped into her lungs. 

She lunged for Hawke just as he bent to pick up Bard’s discarded staff. 

“Hey, _ouch_ ,” he complained, jerking back. “Look, I realize it’s not a rule, exactly—”

“Be quiet,” she snapped, staring up at the doors. 

Thankfully, he did as she said, and the bridge grew silent. 

Mist curled out from the small gap between the doors, smelling of incense and decay. Not the rotting of corpses, but the deep scent of decomposition. It smelled of the ancient earth. Of trees. It smelled, strangely enough, like Wisdom’s forest.

Roslyn stared, breath coming fast, not understanding the fear and—anticipation that held her in a vice. 

It was as if some part of her were waiting. Waiting for something that called to the kernel of light inside her chest. 

“I don’t like this,” Hawke murmured, aura uncurling and rising in readiness. “We should find a way to close—”

A soft clicking noise echoed out from the mist. It built slowly, almost like a snicker, into a rough, rasping laugh. The sound raised the hair on the back of her neck. 

A cry cut through the silence. A defiant, eager cry, like the creaking of branches in the wind, or the groaning of rocks. It swept over the armies behind them, and for a moment, the entire cavern froze. 

“That’s not an archdemon,” Roslyn muttered, taking one, careful step forward.

The doors slammed open. Mist spilled out over the courtyard before the bridge. Power, ancient and forgotten, reminding her intensely of the aura protecting Skyhold, whipped past her. 

Out from the gloom walked something Roslyn had never seen before. A towering, massive creature, nearly fifty feet tall, with limbs the size of giant trees. At the end of each of its five legs was a wicked looking pincer, like the scorpions she’d seen at the edges of the Anderfels. Its colorshifted from grey to green to silver, bright ink undulating over its bark-like skin with every step. The head swiveled, rotating farther than it should have been able to rotate, and stopped when it saw Roslyn. 

Six black eyes seemed to whir and focus on her. Intelligence flashed in their depths, and its teeth-rimmed jaw opened wide. 

“Oh fuck,” Hawke muttered, grabbing her arm and jerking her back. “Run. Now. Oh fuck, fuck, _fuck._ ”

Roslyn tried to pull from his grasp, but he only tugged at her harder. “Hawke, we have to—”

“No, no we don’t! _Not_ for that thing!”

She opened her mouth to ask how in the Void he knew what it was, when it shrieked again, and her knees shook. She only had time to look over her shoulder, to see its mouth open—before a jet of silver light hit bridge next to her. 

The impact sent her flying through the air. It wasn’t heat, but rippling force that dented her chestplate and cracked one of her greaves. It knocked the air out of her chest just as she slammed back into the bridge. She tumbled without a hold to grab. The bridge vanished, and she screamed. Her fingers found the edge and only just managed to hold on. Her face hit the stone. Her jaw cracked. Darkness crowded into her vision, but she blinked it away. Her arms burned as she pulled herself up, her head echoing with a distant ringing. 

Dimly, she heard her name being called. She sprawled up onto the bridge, heart thudding. 

Only to see a shadow pass over her head. She twisted as one of the creature’s limbs hit the stone where chest had been only a moment before. The impact sent dust up into the air, debris hitting her face. A buffet of force and arcane energy grabbed at her, but she shoved it back. She had only a second before another limb grazed the side of her leg. It ripped through her armor, tearing open flesh. She could barely catch her breath. 

The wolf reacted in her stead, launching forward and opening its jaws. The anchor blazed open, and a small, concentrated rift erupted over her head. The Fade brushed over her, and it helped some. She managed to get up and scramble out from the creature’s dancing limbs. 

The creature stood just over the rift, considering it as it tore through the air. Roslyn watched, and felt dread rise up to strangle her as it simply stepped back, seemingly unharmed by the power. As it the rift were nothing more than an annoying swarm of flies. Its head swiveled, and its six black eyes locked on her once more. Alien intelligence shone down on her, cracking through her chest with vengeance. The thing was looking at _her_ , only her. And she could _feel_ its attention like a beam of light. 

Magic swelled behind its massive body and two smoking boulders hit it at the same time. A force void opened up under its center, and it stumbled. 

Over her din of confusion, she saw three figures approaching over the bridge, hurling magic at the creature. A black shadow trailed at their heels. Cole. 

_Oh, Maker._

“Roslyn, love, I don’t think you understood me when I told you to _fucking run_.” Hawke slid onto the ground beside her, blood trickling down his temple, blinking rapidly. He was holding his arm at an odd angle. 

“The fuck is this thing?” she managed, getting to her feet and wincing at a sharp pain in her side where her armor had buckled. 

“The Void on five legs.” Hawke tugged her arm back as she readied a bolt of arcane energy. “That won’t work. Only blood magic affects it.”

She gave him an incredulous look, only to feel the thing refocus on her. It was like a beam of light had been trained on her face, like its every intent was fixed on her and her alone. 

It cried again, and Roslyn’s barrier flickered in fear. Arcane energy built around her—and she realized in horror that it was attempting to cage her.

Hawke stepped in front of her, digging his thumb into a cut on his arm. Great beads of blood splashed against the stone, and Roslyn shied back from the influence, only to watch in awe as Hawke reached forward through the air and twisted his clenched hand. 

One of the creature’s legs spasmed, the sound of rock and tree breaking echoed across the cavern. It stumbled and fell forward, sending another shuddering crack through the bridge. Roslyn watched a fracture spread before them, felt the foundation under her shift. 

They had to get off the bridge. 

Hawke swayed and she only just managed to catch him before he fell.

“That was impressive,” she muttered, slinging his bloody arm over her shoulders. “Don’t suppose you could do that again?”

“Sure,” he said, voice wavering. She felt the tremble in his body, and shoved down her fear. “Lemme just cut off my leg.”

“I think a peg leg would suit—” But before she could finish, the creature righted itself. One of its legs hung limp, the pincer dripping fluid that looked like quicksilver, but the others seemed to be working just fine as it thundered toward her. She managed to skip back, retreating toward the doors. Two pincers slammed in quick succession into the stone a less than a foot away from her. The bridge trembled. 

Her heart leapt into her throat. She looked up, saw who was approaching across the bridge. Solas. Isahn. Dorian. 

They weren’t going to make it in time. 

_Andraste forgive me_. 

She threw Hawke down and ran forward. The creature skidded back, opening its mouth to blast her again. She dodged, pouring force into each one of her bounding steps. Its magic hit the bridge, and she closed her eyes against the blinding energy. She managed to keep her feet and ran. Her sword blazed as she slashed against the inside of one of its legs. It danced over the skin like fire over stone.

“Come on,” she urged it, keeping just in front of its legs as it tried to grab her. Every impact further shook the bridge. Every impact rocked the stone. Cracks opened up under her feet as she ran, baiting it. “Come _on_ , you fucked up spider.”

She jumped out of the way again, rolling to a stop only a foot from the edge of the bridge. 

The creature shrieked, slammed its monumental claws back into the stone—and the bridge tilted. 

Stumbling to her feet, she ducked between the flying limbs of the creature as it tripped and hit the bridge hard. Another tremor and crack. The portion she stood on dropped a few feet and held, groaning. 

“Hawke,” she yelled over the creature’s voice, the tense whine of the bridge, “Hawke, _run_.”

“Yes,” he managed, face pale under his black beard. “We need to run. This thing is about to—”

“It won’t let me leave. It—” She winced as the focus turned once again toward her. The wolf rose her barrier, and she felt it throwing off chains the creature tried to catch her with. “I can distract it while you get to the others.”

He blinked, and his vision clarified. “I’m not leaving you.”

“That wasn’t a suggestion,” she said through gritted teeth. The bridge cracked and crumbled, and they both lurched to the side.

“Fuck you—it _wasn’t a suggestion_ ,” he shouted, color coming back into his cheeks. He shoved her off him and straightened. “I’m the only one who’s managed to hurt it. If one of us is staying behind—”

“You can barely stand up!” 

“I’ll manage!”

The creature’s shriek lanced between them, and she looked up as she felt its attention turn. 

Over the mass of its silver limbs, she saw magic being thrown—Solas’s aura swelled in another pool of cold force, trapping one of its legs. Isahn’s swords flashed orange and he leapt forward, an arc of warm light through the darkness of the caver. Purple glyphs erupted in the air around the creature’s head as Dorian tried to stun it. 

Roslyn felt that ripple of force coming off the creature, felt how _vast_ it was. The shuddering _click_ of its cry rent the air—and she acted without thought. 

She slammed her sword into the bridge and poured her aura into one, single blast. 

The concussion nearly blew her back, but she held, throwing her consciousness into snapping the foundations beneath her. Stone cracked and rock exploded. 

The bridge collapsed. 

The wolf’s barrier flickered to life, stone erupting and slamming into her as she pitched through the air into the darkness. In the chaos, one of the creature’s pincers nicked her already injured leg. She screamed as cold fire tore across her shin. 

Something warm hit her back—Hawke, she realized when she heard his strangled yell. 

The air whistled around her, cold and sharp as she fell. And continued to fall. 

Her heart thudded wildly, as if it didn’t know whether to rejoice in the feeling of weightlessness, or fear it. She dropped through the air, only dimly aware of Hawke smacking against her, limbs flailing. The creature’s shriek of fury matched the one in her own mind. 

And when the seconds grew, and she kept falling, she realized what must come next. 

She thought back to the falling rock, to how she had listened for minutes, and heard no sound of impact. 

She was going to die.

The thought cut off her air, panic and regret sending knives deep into her heart. 

What was it Solas said when he was sorry— _Ir abelas?_

_I’m not ready._

The sound of rushing water filled her ears. Cold, wet streams of dim light seemed to appear out of the darkness. She saw Hawke, his eyes closed—and her adrenaline roared to life. 

The shape of the creature appeared as she spun, scrambling for some awareness of what was happening. More water rushed through her vision, over her skin, and she realized with a jolt that they were falling toward something, through a cascade of moisture falling down around them. 

She conjured a barrier around herself and threw out a tendril of force, catching Hawke’s leg. She pulled him close, wrapped her barrier around both them, along with a wall of force on all sides, just to be safe. 

The whistling and roar of crashing water swelled. And they hit something hard. 

The air knocked out of her chest, but she managed to keep her barrier up. She felt nothing snap or break, though her body screamed in agony. The water was so cold she felt it like fire over her skin. It burned and pinched, causing her limbs to seize up and spasm. Hawke jerked in her grip, but she kept hold of him. _Still alive, then._

The darkness was nearly absolute, but the light of her barrier showed her churning water. A mess of silver limbs whipped past her head. An echoing shriek sounded far off. 

Something wrapped around her ankle and tugged. 

Bubbles flew out of her mouth as her aura winked in and out. She tried to kick off, but whatever was holding her continued to pull—with a strength that dwarfed her own. It tugged again, and she jerked through the water like a ragdoll.

Roslyn squirmed, the burning in her chest growing painful as she struggled for air. Darkness swallowed her. The anchor flared at her call. A great, yellow eye slitted as a roar of primal agony slammed into her mind.

And once again, she was falling. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haaaaaaaave I mentioned how much I like fight scenes? Also very heavy and obvious imagery? 
> 
> <3 Love y'aaaaaalllllll <3


	50. Made of This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Sweet Dreams" by Mark Hadley ft. Dresage](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fZJ0bR6vwHk&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&index=53&t=0s)

Roslyn hit the ground amidst a torrent of water. The anchor pulsed and shuddered. She clenched her fist, and the Fade answered. The tear over her head sealed shut. 

Only then did she hear an answering sound—a deep, mournful bellow of frustration, like a chorus of furious voices cut short from devouring a feast. 

It stirred terrified nausea in its wake. She coughed and flipped over, vomiting water onto the ground. Her stomach throbbed as it cleared, inky darkness reflecting up at her as it splashed over yellowed rocks. Dimly, she heard someone doing the same nearby. 

Hawke—or what she assumed was Hawke, as he was covered in streams of black ink and looked like he’d been shat out the wrong end of a troll’s ass—wretched a few feet away. It took her a moment to get her bearings, throat raw, chest burning as she sucked in breath. She tried to get up, only to stumble over something wet and solid.

Something was still wrapped around her legs. Fear cut through her momentary relief. A large, wet tentacle, twice the circumference of her thigh, was circled around her ankle. As she stared in horror, it pulsed. She kicked in alarm, summoning arcane energy to sear it clean through—only to watch it fleck away into the air like embers from a fire.

She sat back with a grunt, following the trail it made in the soft breeze, realization wiping clean her mind. 

“By the Maker’s gleaming phallus,” Hawke groaned, slumping to the ground beside her. His arm flopped onto her leg, startling her. “What happened? Did we die?”

Roslyn couldn’t speak. Now that she was paying attention, she noticed the lightness in the air. The heightened senses. The feeling of infinite, wonderful possibility. The world glittered before her, motes of brilliant light coalescing and losing shape again, like blood dispersing through a wash basin.

She lifted her hand, and willed one large, white flower to rise from the dirt. It bloomed with less effort than it usually took, and in a moment, she was thumbing a petal of Andraste’s Grace.

The quick padding of feet sounded behind her. She jerked to her feet and then sagged with relief when she recognized her wolf bounding toward her. 

Hawke followed her gaze and yelped. He tried to rise, only to fall face first into the dirt again. 

A weak laugh escaped from her lips as the wolf knelt and butted its head against her chest. Thoughts flickered past her mind, words and emotions catching and holding, some formed, some vague. 

_Falling. Fade. Fear._

Roslyn bent back, searching its pale green eyes. “Can you speak now?”

The wolf shook out its fur, frustration flickering once through their connection. 

She smiled, its presence blessedly normal in the face of everything that had happened to her since those doors had been opened, running a hand over its snout as she turned to Hawke. 

There was an incredulous frown on his face, as if he were trying hard to keep from shrieking. “Explain,” he said roughly. “Now.”

“You can see the wolf?”

“The seven foot monstrosity standing next to you? Yes. Strangely enough.”

The wolf snapped at him in annoyance. 

“Play nice,” she muttered. “Short answer? It’s a spiritual manifestation of the anchor.”

Hawke’s eyes went sharp, flicking between them. “Is this… _wolf_ always with you? In the waking world as well?”

She nodded. 

Something in his expression wavered, but his grimace was back in a moment. “You’re an abomination. Of course you are.” He laughed, the humor not reaching his eyes. “The Maker does enjoy his little jokes.”

“You’re a maleficar.” She turned away, stifling the small amount of pain at his pronouncement, so dimly recalled now that it felt as if it belonged to someone else. “And we’re both technically apostates. I’m not interested in splitting hairs over which one of us has transgressed the most against the Chantry.”

The landscape was nearly barren on all sides, a flat plain covered in smoke. A hint of shapes sat blurry in the distance. It wasn’t the same view she’d seen from the battlements of Redcliffe Castle, not quite blasted and charred—but it was close enough to make the hair rise on the back of her neck.

Behind them, however, stood a mountain, towering up into the green sky like a watchtower. Its peak was topped by an impenetrable darkness, flashes of white lightning arcing around the edges of the cloud.

Her stomach twisted at the memory of the figure wreathed in black. 

_The one who took something from you._

The air around her sparked with fear—so potent she could taste it on her tongue. Wisps of memory, voices in pain, echoing shouts coalesced into shadows with claws and ichor-stained teeth.

The wolf growled, and the air cleared. It turned to her with concern, and thought, _Control._

Heart pounding, Roslyn nodded. Right. The Fade reflected her own preoccupations. If she, as a dreamer, could change it while asleep, she would need to take extra care not to affect it now.

But the question rose, taunting in its implications—what could she do while physically present? How far did her ability as a dreamer go?

She should have been more wary of the possibility. _Solas is rubbing off on me._

“We’re in the Fade,” Hawke pronounced, helpfully.

She clenched her jaw, reaching out a hand to help Hawke up. “It appears so.” 

“That your doing?” He winced, cradling his arm to his chest. “Bloody _fuck_ , that hurts—”

At a thought, she stepped toward him, and held out her hand. If she could shape the Fade to her will… “I think I might be able to do something. Let me see your arm.”

He hesitated, pushing back his wet hair with his good hand. For a hardened warrior who regularly cut himself open to perform magic, there was something rather innocent in his fearful expression. “You know what you’re doing, of course. You’ve been in the Fade before. I mean, I’ve been in the Fade too. Maybe not physically, but I _was_ in the Fade. Helping out a young lad who’d been getting too cozy with…”

She said nothing as he continued to babble, concentrating on the memory of Solas’s magic. The smooth, sliding warmth of his aura. She thought of the healing push, the encouraging threading together of muscle and sinew, the ordered, safe realignment of how bodies were supposed to work—let it sink into Hawke’s arm. She imagined bones growing true, skin knitting together, muscle strengthening. It was easy, really. She followed the outline already laid for her, drawing on Hawke’s own aura to guide her, like unlocking a door, or calling on her own magic. There was the natural order of the world—she simply had to encourage it to return to its normal state of wellness. 

Only…it wasn’t wholly natural. None of it was. Order was a system, and a system was constructed. It was artificial, all of it. Beautiful and intricate, just like her anchor was beautiful and intricate, but not natural. Not primal. There was something deeper hiding underneath the neat layers of sinew and bone, the veins which pumped blood, the tiny electrical connections firing off as she slowly reknit Hawke’s flesh and healed his broken arm. Something which breathed of chaos and the space between the smallest pieces of life.

And the longer she remained in the marrow of Hawke’s body, coaxing his skin and muscle and bone to heal itself, the more she felt that _something_ tug at her. Something which did not come from Hawke, or the Fade. Something inside her reflected in the faint whisper of nothingness just beneath the flesh of the man standing beside her, which urged her to keep going. 

_Control._

She blinked, and pulled herself back. The wolf had flickered into her mind, bringing that order and balance back into focus. She saw the gentle, natural lines of Hawke’s arm as they should be, and let them settle. 

Hawke whistled in surprise, and she released him, swallowing a slight discomfort in her abdomen. Her heart beat a little fast, as if she had just run up a steep hill.

But underneath that small fatigue, she felt as if the deepest parts of her were screaming for more. 

He rotated his shoulder and gave her an appreciative smile. “Hot damn, the fuck did you do? I feel better than I have in a decade. I feel like I could start dancing.”

It was easy, here, to see where things fit, how they wanted to fall. Healing was just like any other magic—manifest will, shaping reality to her whim. The Fade wanted to help her, and though it was as easy as breathing, this rightness the same clarity she felt sometimes with the wolf, and her anchor, some part of her loathed how simple it was. As if it should have been harder. As if this simplicity were a kind of perversion of what the world should have been.

She shook her head, ridding the last of her thoughts of this strange, dark certainty, and tried to pour a bit of edge into her voice. “Perhaps you should stop drinking so much and you wouldn’t feel like shit all the time. You’re not that old.”

He laughed. The sound echoed hauntingly over the distant plane. “Seriously, though, what happened? I was—pretty sure we were both dead for a minute. I think I did die, actually.”

“You passed out before we hit the water.”

“Yes, well, when you’re falling into an endless abyss and there’s no sign of an impending squish, it’s hard to tell the difference.”

A beat of silence fell between them. There was no wind, but energy rose up from the ground around them both. Sparkling white dust reached up for her in the straight lines of reversed rain, while Hawke’s energy turned red, and pulsed with a wicked kind of glee. 

It was one thing to marvel at when she knew she was just sleeping, quite another to be present, to _feel_ it. To feel _all_ of it.

She reached back for the wolf to calm her nerves. 

“Roslyn—”

“I don’t know what happened, Hawke,” she murmured, meeting his gaze, bright with fear.

His brow furrowed. “You collapsed the bridge, right?”

Her jaw clenched in guilt. 

“It’s all right,” he said softly, a knowing solemnity in his face. “I was about to do the same.”

She took a quick breath, and laughed. “And you say you aren’t a hero.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. 

“I opened the rift once we hit the water.” The memory sent fear curling down her spine, but she breathed through it, remembering Isahn’s teachings. Letting it flow through her, rather than build. She was a conduit, not a dam. “There was something—in it. Pulling me under. I reacted without thought.”

“Something besides the varterral?”

She raised an eyebrow, but the wolf seemed to understand. It sat, looking off into the distance, as if searching for some sign of the creature. _Guardian_ , it told her. _Ancient. Enduring._

Hawke lifted his hands to mimic pincers. “Nasty fuckers. Take a dragon over one of them any day.”

“You’ve fought one before?”

“Unfortunately.” He gave an involuntary shudder, and pricks of darkness gathered around his head. 

“Careful,” she warned, gesturing to the wisps forming out of his thoughts. “We’re in the Fade. The place of all fears. If you don’t watch it, they could literally come back to haunt you.”

Hawke stilled, and took a deep breath. The air cleared, but she could still taste it—carrying the note of his wine and blood-soaked aura. He sighed, looking uncomfortable. “That’s going to be a problem for me.”

Inwardly, she agreed. It was one thing to control her fears in the waking world, quite another to have them so eager to answer her in the Fade. 

Her vision tugged toward the mountain, and a memory whispered at the back of her mind. 

_Running. I was running._ The landscape shifted slightly into a plane of grass. Again, there was no wind, but it swayed. A deceptively peaceful scene. 

“I’ve been here,” she murmured. 

“Right. That’s why they gave you the fancy title.”

“No, _here_ ,” she pointed toward the mountain, trailing up to the very top, where the darkness seemed to gather, and sharpen into the tips of minarets. “I’ve been _here_ before. That’s where I fell out of the Fade.”

Hawke followed her gaze and frowned. “Are you telling me we somehow popped out of the Fade in Haven?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“Well, it’s better than nothing.” Hawke shrugged. “Higher ground is where we need to go anyway. I don’t fancy you opening a rift back into the ocean at the bottom of the world. You can just open a rift and drop us back out again, right?” He turned to stare at her when she didn’t answer. _“Right?”_

She took a moment to find her voice, caught between terror at being physically in the Fade, something which once might have stopped her heart and nearly overwhelmed her—and excitement. 

If this was the place where she had received the mark, where Andraste had helped her…

“Come on.” She forced herself to step forward, fighting the urge to break into a run. 

 

~  ✧ ~

 

It didn’t take long for the first demons to arrive. 

Most hovered a good distance away, watching—the very sight of them marvel enough to be satisfied. Others grew bold. The first demon to approach was fear. A simple thing, it transformed into a spider, easily taken down with one blast of magic. The next few took their time, calling out offers from the shifting grass, their voices sweet and gentle. Hawke cut one of them in half with the blade edge of his staff, and the rest skittered off again. 

By the time they began a slow, steady incline to the base of the mountain, they were fending demons of all kinds off every ten or so minutes. 

Roslyn finished ripping apart a very attractive desire demon, one which looked uncomfortably similar to Iron Bull. By Hawke’s lingering, obvious stare, she guessed it had not been for her, but she couldn’t be sure. 

None of them had thought to mimic Solas, at least. That was one blessing. 

“If anyone offers you a big boat,” Hawke said, jogging up beside her as she walked around a bend in the rock, “say no. Please. I don’t think my ego can take another rejection like that.”

The wolf actually looked back at him, such obvious disdain floating through the air that she laughed. “A boat? What on earth would I need a boat for?”

“What does anyone need a boat for?” Hawke flipped his staff and tried to balance it on the palm of his hand, looking bored. He was like a child sometimes, honestly. “Perhaps you want to give up this Inquisitor gig and style yourself as a pirate. I know someone who can help with that, by the way, if you ever _do_ want to give this pleasant calling up.”

“Pirate, hm?” She liked the ocean well enough, but she didn’t quite fancy being trapped on a fragile piece of wood with other people, unable to leave and get her own peace and quiet. Also, she had a tendency to break things that might lead to some tension with her fellow shipmates. “I’ll think about it.”

“I’ve got many connections,” he continued, pulling his hair back into a tie she offered him. Her own hair was still locked in Dagna’s new metal net. She’d have to thank the dwarf if she got out of here alive. “Fancy killing slavers in Tevinter? I know an elf. Or perhaps you enjoy a bit of guard work. I happen to be best friends with the captain of the Kirkwall City Guard.”

“I thought Varric was your best friend.”

“He is. So is Aveline Vallen. And a few other people, thank you. I am a man of many friends.”

“Right. Tell me again why you left Kirkwall?”

“My mental health.”

“I thought it was because the Divine wanted to order an Exalted March to find you.”

“Semantics, Roslyn, love. Now, back to your options should you find yourself in need of employment. If you fancy becoming an assassin, I know the best one in Thedas. Spritely elven lass named Gemma Tabris, who…well actually she might be in Tevinter too, now that I think of it. Last I heard, she and Fenris—”

“The one who hates mages.”

“Yes. Another best friend of mine.”

She smiled. “He seemed very handsome in Varric’s book. Was his voice really that nice, or was that just Varric embellishing?”

Hawke cut her a sharp look. “He’s fine. If you like that sort of thing.”

“Which you do.”

“Well not all of us can find ourselves a stuffy, bookish apostate to…” He trailed off, jaw clenching hard. “Oh, shit.”

As if on cue, a demon leapt down from a cliff overlooking the path they’d chosen, forming into a tall, lithe man with shockingly blue eyes. He lifted his chin, and spoke in a resonant, high voice. _“Is this how you think you’re making things right, Garrett? By following someone else, by fleeing your city? Where is the justice in running?”_

Roslyn called her sword, only to stumble back as a wave of smaller fear demons swarmed her and the wolf—darkspawn and corpses. She cut through them easily enough, but they kept coming, pushing her further back from Hawke, who was standing frozen as the demon stalked toward him. 

_“You cannot run forever, love. You cannot run from your past.”_

She felt it suffusing the air, the side of the mountain growing dark with Hawke’s growing anguish. It was so strong, she had to fight it herself. “Hawke! Snap out of it,” she shouted, blasting back a wave of corpses. The emotion, horrible and raw and old, was so wild that it took all her energy to stay focused. “It’s not real!”

His mouth fell open, as if he were going to say something, but he simply stared. His staff hung limp in his grasp. 

_“She will die, just like your mother died—lying desiccated in your arms. Just like your father—ripped apart by darkspawn. Just like Anders.”_

A strangled sob broke through his lips. 

“Hawke!” Roslyn poured her will into her sword, sweeping one last arc through the tide of monsters. A few yards away, the wolf leapt and tore into an approaching ogre. 

She turned just in time to see the demon reach for Hawke, blue lightning arcing around his fingers, a noble, fiery rage in his eyes. _“Poor, broken, Anders. How you hurt him. How you destroyed him. Do you even know where he is? Would you even know if he was dead? You sent him away on his own, you coward—”_

Roslyn speared the tip of her sword through the demon’s back before it could touch Hawke. It fractured and burst, blowing the sharp taste of fear and loss back across her face. 

Hawke actually reached out, horror flashing in his brown eyes, before he crumpled, and let out a ragged sob. 

She hesitated, feeling his aura ripple with grief and guilt. “Hawke—”

“Don’t,” she managed, holding up his hand. “Just—give me a minute.”

The wolf stepped up next to her, watching Hawke as he composed himself. There was something—pointed in the way it considered him. As if it were searching for something vitally important. 

She tried to separate her own feelings from Hawke’s, controlling her reaction as best she could. It was too close to what she’d felt for Jonas all those years ago that she half expected a demon to materialize before her—shouting for retribution, for vengeance. 

_Rage._

She looked at the wolf, its six green eyes glowing with a soft, comforting hue. _Hm?_

_Rage. Not vengeance. Pain. Not retribution._ It seemed to be laying them out before her, urging her to consider them as if they were having a disagreement. _Fear. Not despair. Control. Not command._

“It’s all my fault.”

Roslyn blinked rapidly, eyes burning with the start of tears. His word pricked at something deep inside her. Something she had only ever mentioned to one other person.

Hawke was still kneeling on the ground, his staff discarded beside him, hands held open on his knees. As she bent to crouch in front of him, she saw the fine lines over his palms, the larger, faded lines up where his vambrace pulled back from his sun-tanned skin. She wondered with a stab of pain how many of those scars were not related to his blood magic.

“Coryphea was released because of me. You’re here because of _me_.” His voice was rough, hard, as if he were challenging her to contradict him. “My parents are dead because I couldn’t protect them. I failed. I keep failing.”

She worked past the knot in her throat, knowing she was a damn hypocrite. How many times had she raked herself over the coals for not doing her best to save the people she cared about? The people who were her responsibility to protect?

The worst part was, they were both right. 

“Trace the line back as far as you want,” she murmured, reaching out to grip Hawke’s hand. “And you can always find yourself to blame.”

Jaw clenched, he looked up at her, tears streaking down his dirty, chiseled face. He looked old, and tired. And so, so angry. 

“It is your fault. It’s mine too. I should have killed Coryphea that night in Haven, but I couldn’t. You should never have released her from her prison, but you did. Fuck,” she laughed, the sound grating as it came out, “blame the Maker for setting all of this up in the first place. He’s supposed to have some grand plan for all of us, isn’t he?”

Hawke’s chest expanded, a sardonic amusement coloring his despair. “That’s smart. You can get out of anything with that one.”

She smiled, leaning forward to cup his face. _You lovely idiot._ “You’ve had a shit life. I can understand why you might want to blame yourself for all of it, but in the end, you’re not smart enough to fuck it up this spectacularly.”

“If this is your idea of a pep talk—”

“You are many things, Hawke, but you are not only a failure. You changed my life once. You clearly managed to do something right, since there are people who still care about you out there in the wider world. You’ve got family,” she added, her voice wavering slightly as she fought her own tears. “Bethany and Carver are waiting for you. Varric can’t seem to stop singing your praises, even though you are a complete shit-head.” She patted him roughly on the cheek, and gave his brow a soft kiss. “And you’ve got me, for fuck’s sake. You wormed your way into my heart, and even though I want nothing to do with anything you’ve got stuffed down your trousers, I can’t imagine doing any of this without you anymore. So if you can’t keep fighting for yourself, fight for me.” She straightened up, blinking her burning eyes as he wiped his face. “Or just fake it until you can get drunk again. Maker knows that’s what I’m doing once we get out of this fucking hole in the ground.”

He laughed, and rose, swallowing back another sob. “I owe you another bottle of wine after that, I think.”

“You owe me so much more than—”

He pulled her into a fierce hug, the sharp edges of his iron chestplate nearly decapitating her. It took her a moment to get over her discomfort, but then she patted him on the back, throat tight with emotion. 

They stood like that for a while, before Roslyn remembered where they were, and what they still needed to do. 

She cleared her throat, and Hawke stepped back, grunting and wiping the last tears from his eyes. “Fuck,” he muttered. “You can’t tell anyone I started crying.”

“Because your reputation is so sterling as it is?”

He grinned, his rakish charm firmly back in place. “All things considered, this is much nicer than the last time I was here.”

“You said that before.”

“I did.” He picked up his staff, twirling it once around his neck, as if proving to himself he still could. “I helped out a dreamer who’d been trapped in his own mind by a demon.” His head cocked, brow furrowed. “The only other half-elf I’ve seen with pointed ears, come to think of it.”

Roslyn’s whole body went rigid. She felt her lips part. Something hard and brittle cracked in the back of her mind. 

“Was that—not the right thing to say?” Hawke asked, frowning in apology. “I thought that was the best, ah, term. If it’s—”

“He had pointed ears?”

Hawke blinked, confused by her alarm. “Yes? I think so?”

“You’re not sure?” she pressed him, aware of the wolf’s caution flickering against her, but ignoring it, for the moment. This was… Some part of her had to know. 

“No, I am.” He coughed awkwardly. “Is that…strange?”

“I’ve never seen another half-elf with pointed ears. I’ve… I haven’t met anyone else who looks like me.”

“Ever?”

“Have you?” she asked, unable to stop her voice from breaking. 

“Well, no, but I don’t think I’ve met another half-elf, besides you two. It’s not like you lot are very open about your heritage. Understandably,” he added, wincing. “Look, I know I’m being an ass—”

“No, no,” she murmured, reaching out as the wolf rumbled in a reminder. “You’re fine. I just—he was a dreamer?”

Hawke nodded, eyeing her closely, as if she might decide at any moment to kick him back down the mountain. “I assume you’re one as well?”

She met his gaze. 

“I’m not a complete idiot. You clearly know what you’re doing when it comes to all this.” He gestured around them both and shrugged. “Even without your holy mark, I’ve seen you do things no one should be able to do. Ergo, dreamer.”

She breathed deep, stifling the old, tired urge to tell him she wasn’t different. 

She was. She always had been. 

The wolf nudged her with its snout, a comforting pulse of its aura sweeping over her skin. _Special._

_Oh, I don’t like that_ , she thought, stepping away from Hawke’s lingering curiosity, shoving the wolf aside when she saw something like amusement in its eyes. She hesitated before continuing up the mountain. “You don’t happen to remember this young man’s name, do you?”

“Feynriel. The last I heard, he was headed to Tevinter. That was…eleven years ago? Right after—,” he cleared his throat again, eyes going dark with memory, “well, right after I thought I killed our mutual friend.” A beat of silence. “Fuck, I’m old.”

Roslyn continued to stare at him, feeling as if someone was watching her. There was something…important in this. She just couldn’t seem to figure it out. 

A cry pierced the silence, clicking and rebounding off the rocks like a creaking tree. Her heart stuttered. The wolf’s ears flattened to its head. 

_Guardian._

She frowned. _Old friend?_ she thought to the wolf. Presumably, if the wolf had its origins in the Ancient Elven Empire, it might have come across this…varterral.

The wolf didn’t respond except to send her a wave of caution, and not a small amount of fear. 

Hawke groaned. “Was it too much to ask that that thing died when we came through? I mean, this is a lot. Even for me.”

Roslyn took a deep breath, refocused her thoughts on the top of the mountain. “Come talk to me again after a mountain collapses on you.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You didn’t have to fight the fucking Arishok. Quick little bastard. And by little, I mean _gigantic._ ”

 

~  ✧ ~

 

It took them longer than it should have to reach the top of the mountain. After an hour or so, even Hawke’s constant talking died down to an uncomfortable silence. 

Roslyn tried to remind herself that time did not move in the same way here as it did in the waking world. They might have only been gone from the cavern for a few minutes. There was still time to return and beat back the tide of darkspawn. 

The opposite was true as well, but she forced herself not to think of that scenario. She could not imagine a world in which she survived while the others…

_Focus._

She grimaced, giving the wolf a sideways glare. “I’m not sure if I like you being able to talk.”

“What was that?” Hawke called from behind her. “Are you talking to the wolf?”

Her jaw clenched in annoyance. She cared for him. Truly. But if she were forced to spend another few hours alone with him in the Fade, she might need to knock him out and throw him over her shoulder to save herself the hassle of listening to him anymore. 

“Never pegged you for a dog person.”

“It’s complicated.”

“I’ll bet.” There was a long pause. “Oh, come on. It’s not like we have anything better…”

Hawke’s voice faded as they both stepped rather abruptly up onto a ledge of smooth black stone. 

Where the mountain had previously been dirt and gravel, red and brown rock tinged with the ever-present green light of the Fade, this stone was finely cut obsidian. The floor was glassy, polished down to a clear reflection that looked unnervingly like the starless night sky. The darkness which had obscured their ascent was gone, revealing structures made of the same black glass. The soft winds of the Fade had vanished as well, and soon there was nothing left but the sound of their breath, and the beating of their hearts. 

“Well, this is creepy,” Hawke muttered, walking forward to frown at the buildings. 

Their path opened up to a wide colonnade, a road leading down to a center square which was slightly lower in elevation. The buildings on either side were grand, leaf-shaped patterns in filigree carved along the eaves and trim to catch the ever-shifting light. 

Looking down, Roslyn saw that the street was cobbled in fine, small tiles which swirled in curling patterns. The longer she stood in one place, the grander the structure grew, until—like her vision widening to encompass the full, unfettered horizon—she saw a sprawling mass of minarets and towers laid out before her, arched bridges and tiers of triangular buildings reaching high into the sky. In the distance, she even saw a circular dome balanced on a pillar which tapered into the point of a needle. A feet of architecture which should not have been possible. All of it made of the same, perfect black glass. 

It was…a city—large as any she’d been to in the waking world, perhaps larger. More spacious and austere than Val Royeaux, more magnificent than the ordered simplicity of Cumberland, and unlike the capital of Ostwick, there was no hint of dirt, no crumbled remnants of a city grown too fast for its infrastructure to keep up. It might even have been beautiful, if not for the silence. The emptiness.

The feeling that something had gone suddenly, horribly, wrong.

“Hawke,” she said softly, unable to tear her eyes from a tiered shape hovering on the horizon, a pair of twisting towers held together by a fine, slender bridge, “look up for me. Do you…see the Black City anywhere?”

Every mage knew the old story. The Black City always hung just above the horizon of the Fade, like a coming storm. Anywhere one looked, there it was. A reminder of man’s greatest hubris. A warning to any mage who thought to gain power over this place.

After a long, pregnant pause, Hawke let out a bark of laughter. He craned his neck to look up at the sky and back out across the plain they had crossed to get here. “You’re _shitting_ me. It’s actually black. Here I thought the Chantry was being metaphorical.”

Roslyn simply shook her head, sliding a hand into the wolf’s fur to anchor herself. _Andraste preserve me…_

The Black City. The seat of the Maker, sundered and spoiled by the magisters of old. Corrupted. Broken. 

But from where she was standing, it wasn’t broken so much as…frozen. Everywhere she looked, she expected to see someone walking toward her, as if everyone here had simply vanished in a moment of chaos. 

It reminded her, strangely enough, of the world between the eluvians _._

“So,” Hawke said, a little breathless, “setting aside the fact that every Chantry mother I ever ridiculed as a child is correct, and I owe an obnoxious Starkhaven prince ten gold pieces, how, exactly, are you planning to save us from this mess, Roslyn, my love?”

“I was thinking I just punt you into the sky to open another rift.”

“Sound plan. However. I am quite thick and juicy, and I’m not sure you’d be able to get enough velocity to punch me through the very fabric of reality.”

She shook her head, taking a few steps forward. Every piece of her was listening, waiting, sure that someone was watching her. The silence made anxiety curl down into her gut. If not for the wolf under her fingers, and Hawke’s scuffing tread beside her, she might have screamed simply to break it. 

And every breath she took seemed to echo the certainty that something was wrong. 

For this was the place Coryphea had tried, again, to enter the Fade. She had pierced through the Veil in Haven and sent Roslyn…here.

To the fucking Black City itself.

That blank space in the back of her mind grew large and potent. She fought the urge to slam her consciousness through it, as if it were a sheet of ice she might finally be able to break.

“I’m trying to find a weak place in the Veil,” she murmured, afraid to raise her voice and disturb the quiet. “I…have no idea if we’ll come out near the thaig, but it will be easier than trying to break through anywhere else.”

“Have you considered the possibility that you might open a rift into the center of the earth? I mean, you were able to open one under water—”

“ _Hawke._ ”

“Right. I’ll let you concentrate.”

She tried to send out her mind to feel the layout of the city, to see if she felt anything familiar, but there was nothing to hold onto, nothing to grab and follow. There was just silence, and the impenetrable _lack_ of substance. All of it was…familiar, and yet totally, utterly foreign, as if the mere sight of it made her feel unwelcome. As if she were an interloper. 

And then, with a silence more potent than the one surrounding the city, a mote of black light drifted across the back of her mind. She froze, hand clenching in the wolf’s fur. 

“What is it?” Hawke asked, readying his staff and dropping into a fighting stance. Even his rising aura felt muted, though it wasn’t the same feeling as a templar’s smite. She did not fight for breath, or feel smothered. 

It was as if the magic itself were being leeched from the air. Drawn down, toward somewhere Roslyn could see in her mind, yet not place, nor recognize—a courtyard overlooking a still, rectangular pool, a bench set back into the shadow of an arch. 

Her mouth opened. Closed. 

The mote remained. Waiting. 

“Something that is most definitely a trap,” she murmured, not trusting herself to speak any louder. “I don’t…” Her jaw clenched, but she forced herself to turn to Hawke. “You should know, before we go any further, that I think something drew me here. Something which has been…following me since the Conclave. I can’t tell you what, but…”

_I have to know. Whatever it is, I can’t turn back now._

“And this is something you need to do?” he asked, no sign of judgement in his eyes.

“Yes,” she murmured. “I don’t know what it is, but I know it wants me. And I know from experience that it won’t be friendly.”

He held her gaze. Iron formed in his dark brown eyes, and he grimaced. “Do we have any other options?”

Roslyn took a deep breath. _What do you think?_ she asked the wolf. 

It didn’t answer. Its mind seemed focused on the path ahead. On searching the empty city for a way back into the waking world. 

“I could try to open a rift here, now. You might be able to get out somewhere close to the thaig.” If she were being honest, she had no idea how to find her way back. All of this was a crap shoot. 

“But you’re not leaving until you get answers.”

She warred with herself, screaming that she had people who needed her, that she should be clawing her way back to the waking world, damn whatever demon or entity was drawing her close and pulling her strings. The _Inquisitor_ would open a rift now to return to her people. The Herald of Andraste would want to help them.

But Roslyn was too close to learning what happened that morning the Conclave exploded and her life had been thrown into chaos. 

She could not leave. Not yet. 

“Right.” Hawke sighed in acceptance as he took in what must be showing on her face. “I know that look. I’ll follow your lead. You are, after all, the only one who can get me out of this place. And I suppose your job title does involve a bit of sleuthing.” He waved a hand forward, dipping into an ostentatious bow. “Inquisit away, love.”

“Sorry, Hawke,” she muttered, walking down the wide, empty road in the general direction her mind pulled her. “Thank you.”

“Don’t apologize yet.” He winked at her. “I understand the need to find answers. More than anyone,” he added, voice going soft and distant. 

He lapsed into silence, and Roslyn found that she missed his incessant babbling. Anything would be preferable to this thick quiet. They made their way down to a large square, where a garden seemed to have once stood in crisp, long lines of planters. Whatever the plants had once been, they were now coated in black glass. Just like every other surface. Their leaves glinted with a bright green sheen, sharp as knives, dangerously beautiful.

“I always thought this place would be…darker,” Roslyn murmured, swallowing the urge to touch one of the obsidian flowers. “Less beautiful.”

“Well, when we hear stories about the place where Tevinter sundered the seat of the Maker, we assume things were broken, strewn about. A little bit of blood left on the upholstery. Entrails draped over the beds.” Hawke had taken to flipping his staff through the air, idly whipping it around his neck and over his back—catching and twirling and repeating the motions over and over again in a graceful dance. “To be honest, I always thought it was a joke.”

“I know the feeling.”

Every step took her closer to that image in her mind, of the serene black pool and the bench. Her feet began to weave through streets almost unconsciously, down one avenue and then another before she realized she knew where she was going. She was not being pulled, merely directed. As if that mote of silence were showing her a path, and giving her the choice as to whether to follow or not. 

_Andraste_ , Roslyn thought, eyes flicking over the streets, searching the darkness in every doorway and alley, _if you are here, show me a sign. Please, let this be you._

She knew, somehow, that it could not be. Andraste was not silence. She was thunder and chanting, the mournful tolling of bells on the storm-churned wind. She was a low, clear voice rising up above a gathered horde. 

“Seriously,” Hawke continued, turning to walk backwards down the street beside her, “this is some next level madness. Do you know what people would say if they found out this was even possible? As far as I was aware, no one could physically walk through the Fade. Dreamers could shape it while asleep, but…before you, it had just been an idle fancy.” He whistled in discomfort. “There’ll be a lot of copycats after word gets out.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, Kirkwall mages have a tendency to…take what should be sound precaution and mush it into a pulp. They had their reasons, obviously, but they’re not a particularly bright lot. There are a fair few who might want to follow in your footsteps. And Maker only knows what Tevinter will do. I was only there for a few months, but I wouldn’t be surprised if half the Magisterium tries to break open the Veil and stroll inside once they know you’ve been to the bleeding Black City.”

Her jaw clenched, and she remained silent. The idea that anyone might follow her lead in anything was…strange. But one which had been echoed before. By Leliana, by Solas. 

Every action she took created ripples in the world.

The thought should have troubled her more than it did. 

It didn’t take too long to find the place Roslyn had seen in her mind. Across a bridge of molten black glass, sitting inside a wide, echoing chamber at the back of grand structure—a palace, perhaps—lay the long, rectangular pool. The water was perfectly still and opaque, reflecting the swirling Fade sky in a perfect mirror. The bench sat on the other side of the pool.

In the darkness of that arch, she saw the shadows take shape. 

Her vision went perfectly black and her knees buckled. She screamed, reaching out for Hawke and the wolf—but they were gone. There was nothing in the perfect darkness, no sound. No wind. Even her heart should have been beating, but she couldn’t hear it. Her mouth was open, her throat tense and burning, but the stillness was absolute. 

Until it wasn’t.

The hood over her eyes was removed. Her voice shattered back into full, deafening sound. She choked it back, scrambling over the marble under her hands. 

Only to find the eerie black glass was gone. The marble was white, luminous. Threaded here and there with silver and pearlescent veins. A fresh, lovely breeze brushed past her face, smelling of flowers and wine, of the morning dew not quite burned away by the sun. 

Roslyn looked up, heart hammering in her throat—and saw an elf sitting on that bench. 

“Welcome, Inquisitor,” he said, his voice pleasant and calm, a small smile playing over his thin lips. “We meet at last.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know I had to pick this song, right?
> 
> (Also OMG I AM JUST REALLY EXCITED TO BE GETTING TO THIS PART OF THE FIC YOU HAVE NO IDEA.)


	51. Be the Stone, Be the Hunter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Thousand Eyes" by Of Monsters and Men](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wylkSUS9Ofs&index=54&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&t=0s)

The elven man was disarmingly lovely. 

Soft white hair curled just around his pointed ears, adorned with a single black bead in the left lobe. His skin was a few shades darker than his hair, with an ochre cast. Features austere, but gentle, he had an air of aristocracy about him. He wore a simple silver tunic tucked into black leather pants, the fabric shimmering slightly as he shifted. On his long fingers sat two rings. One a simple brass band, the other some kind of blue stone. 

He looked…nice. 

Which was why the alarm and fear blazing in the center of her chest felt so strange.

Roslyn got to her feet, feeling for the hilt of her sword. She cast her eyes over the courtyard once, but there was no sign of the wolf or Hawke. She could still feel the anchor, pulsing, yet muted. As if her wolf was being held back. It felt similar enough to her visions that she wondered if she would be able to cast.

“I hope you don’t mind,” the man continued, watching her with a kind of fondness which unnerved her, “but I sent your friends away for the time being. You and I, I think, need a moment alone.”

She swallowed the knot in her throat. Licked her lips to stall for time as she considered what the fuck she could do. “What are you?” she asked, her voice coming out in a bark. 

His smile grew wide. “Trapped, unfortunately. But that is a discussion for another day.” He held up his hands in a gesture of warning. “I’m going to get up now, if that’s all right. I mean you no harm.”

“Bullshit.” She took a few steps forward, wincing as the sunlight struck her skin. It felt…warm. Pleasant. All of it felt nice, and empty. “Give me a reason why I shouldn’t blast you into the next age, _demon_.”

The elf sighed, but rose, picking off an invisible piece of dust from his shoulders. “I am no demon, Roslyn. But if that allows you to feel more justified in your anger, feel free to label me so. It matters little, in the end. Demons, spirits,” he continued, walking toward her with an even, precise gait, “all names for those beings who have been banished unfairly from the waking world. I’m sure you could think of a few more names that would more accurately describe who and what I am.”

The kernel of light in her chest flickered once, and then exploded into a pyre. It was painful, burning, but there was something furious about it. Half of her was split between rage, pure and triumphant, at wanting to leap forward and rip into this soft, smiling elf—while the other half was frozen in fear. 

And in the midst of it all, that blank space in the back of her mind loomed larger than it ever had before. 

“First,” the elf said, watching her in fascination, “a gift. To you. When I took your memories of the Conclave, I had no idea who, and _what_ , you were. Coryphea required time to rebuild her forces, and I offered to stall you and your Inquisition as long as I could. It was a mistake, one that I will rectify now.”

Roslyn took a step back from the approaching elf, not knowing whether to flee or fight—when the scene before her shifted once more. 

The clear, open pavilion transformed into a dark hallway, candlelight flickering over the carved statues set in little alcoves. The stone under her feet was rough, warn down over the ages. Drifts of snow blew in from the tall window to her left, and when she looked, she saw mountains beyond, capped in snow and ice. 

“The Temple of Sacred Ashes,” the elf said, startling her. He stood some feet away from her, not encroaching, but watching. Registering her every expression. “On the day you received the anchor.” He gave her a small smile, the sight sending a conflicted stab of both wrath and fear into her gut. “Another little surprise of yours. To everyone involved, I can assure you.”

Before she could respond, the sound of footsteps rebounded off the shadowed hall. 

Two figures approached. One was a man, old and stooped, his hair more grey than black. _Marlan Jeffries_ , her mind supplied with a wrench, as if his name had been expelled into the air. A senior enchanter who had traveled with her to the Conclave. Remembered, now, as she watched him bicker with the woman on his left. 

Who was, Roslyn saw in a daze of realization, _her_. 

Red hair half-tied in a loose, messy bun, skin sun-bronzed from months of traveling, wearing her old Circle robes—blue reinforced with lyrium-enhanced defenses, long sleeves rucked up and rolled to her elbows, the hem of her skirts dirtied and ragged—she was walking with the old man, an expression of disdain pulling at the edges of her lips. 

_Maker, I look so young_ , she thought, noting her full cheeks, the lack of dark circles under her eyes, the generous strength of her stomach and hips. She was healthy now, healthier than she might have ever been in her life, but she was hard. Muscles had replaced the soft flesh of her body, tension coiled in every line of her limbs. She had always been strong, but she had lost something in the Conclave. Some kind of gentler innocence she thought she’d never had. 

“For what it’s worth,” the elf said, following her gaze—a flicker of something like disapproval flashing in his dark eyes, “I believe you’re much improved.”

She swallowed her tangle of emotions and said harshly, “Get out of my mind.”

He laughed. The sound sent shudders of unease down her spine. “No, I don’t think I will. I have always enjoyed your mind, Roslyn.”

Her eyes snapped to him, but he waved her forward to follow herself into this memory.

The sight of her retreating back, and the sound of her mumbled voice, was too much to ignore just then. 

She and Jeffries took a sharp left, continuing to bicker. 

As she walked, Roslyn remembered—she had been called to the Divine’s chambers early that morning. A representative from both the Mage Rebellion and the Templar Order were to attend Justinia before the official talks commenced. A gesture of goodwill on her part to the proxies of the Grand Enchanter and the Lord Seeker both. Jeffries had refused to let Roslyn go on her own, claiming that someone more senior from the College should be present to ensure she didn’t mess things up on her own. Roslyn had tried to leave the old man behind, but he’d caught up, treating her to a thorough scolding on how she might change her behavior to better respect her elders. 

All of it came rushing back as she walked, nearly forgetting the elf a few paces behind her. Heart beating in her throat, her mind only seconds behind the memory of herself in front of her, she recognized the scream before it broke the early morning silence. 

A pulse of blood magic swept down the hallway. The candles flickered in their alcoves. Roslyn watched herself stumble back, felt the rough chill of the wall as she braced herself before she could fall. 

And she knew the moment before it happened what the figure before her was about to do. Run. Run for the noise, without a second thought. 

Down the passage to the room conspicuously absent of guards. The doors were blasted open, still smoking on their hinges as she watched herself scramble to a stop. Her hands lifted, arcane light spinning violently around her fingers. 

Inside the room were bodies. Corpses of the knight enchanters who had tried to defend the Divine. A few older women were among the dead as well, blood seeping into their white and pink robes. A few templars, their armor singed and their eyes blank where they were sprawled in the fine linens of the Divine’s rooms.

In the center of the carnage stood five figures. Four wore the instantly recognizable armor of the Grey Wardens. Their eyes gleamed red beneath their helmets, very like the blood-crazed templars she had fought at Therinfal Redoubt. All of them stood perfectly still, their attention fixed on Coryphea. 

Strolling through the blood-soaked room as if it were her own domain, twisting her right hand in the air in a lazy imitation of a wave, she drew on the energy of the sacrifices strewn around her. Her black gown reflected in the growing light of her magic, her pauldrons of steel shining with flecks of blood. She was every bit as statuesque and regal then as she had been in the ruins of Haven, but Roslyn could see her more clearly now. There was a pallid cast to her skin. A ripped, worn limpness in the pulsing veins of her arm. 

She was not the maelstrom of power who had crippled Roslyn. Not yet.

Roslyn clung to the piece of information like a lifeline as the scene unfolded. If she had gained such power so quickly, she could lose it once more.

The Divine, wrapped in black, rusted chains, strung up on an altar made of red lyrium in the back of her private rooms, called out for help. The scene was so reminiscent of Fiona chained to the pillar in Redcliffe that Roslyn had to fight her rage. Justinia called out, told Roslyn to run, to warn the rest of the Conclave. But she didn’t listen. Instead, she sent a bolt of arcane energy into Coryphea’s back. 

The magister froze, craned her head to raise one unimpressed brow. She snapped her fingers, and Roslyn flew through the air. She felt the magic echo dully in her stomach as she remembered the constriction, the feeling that she was being pulled by invisible strings. 

Coryphea grabbed her by the throat, lifting her up off the ground. Roslyn watched her own legs kick futilely, hated seeing the weakness in herself. The choking sounds made self-loathing reach up into her throat and strangle her. 

“What is this?” Coryphea asked, her low voice resonating through the room. “A _rattus_ , come to bite at my toes?”

Tears burned her eyes as she watched herself scramble at the hand choking her throat. She clawed and scratched, to no avail, finally reaching out blindly as her body spasmed in the final throws of her life. Her left hand snapped out, smacked the outstretched palm of Coryphea’s other hand. And the air shimmered. 

The moment seemed to slow and sharpen. Roslyn remembered pulling, _pulling_ on the air—feeling something of power hovering just over Coryphea’s palm. Her nearly-unconscious mind had been scrabbling for some way to fight her looming death. And she had found a way.

The orb winked into life, sparking and humming with red, lancing energy. Coryphea’s eyes widened in the first truly human expression Roslyn had ever seen her make. In fear. 

Roslyn’s hand brushed the orb. 

The moment her fingers made contact, the scene split into a prism of color. Red, where the blood called by Coryphea blazed bright. White, where Roslyn’s aura rose like a halo around her form. And green, in the subtle shift of the orb as one tendril of uncorrupted energy lanced out of the red miasma. The grooves carved into the device flared, one brief image of the glyph flickering up over her skin—and then the world erupted. 

Roslyn felt the searing power rip through her form even in this memory. It sundered into the ground, causing a series of tremors to spiral deep through the surrounding mountains. The Grey Wardens vanished in a burst of power, along with Justinia, whose eyes were wide with horror. It took Coryphea a moment to fracture, red light splintering over her arms and chest, cracking her livid face into a thousand pieces before she burst apart. 

In the center of it all, Roslyn hung—weightless as the anchor phased and warped around her hand. Her aura shone like a pearlescent film over her skin. 

The second blast split open the Veil. 

The Fade crashed down around her, green light spilling into every nook and cranny of the world. The red lyrium hissed and spit sparks as the energy warred against itself. The ground was gouged out, craters exploding with the force of the impacts. Slowly, Roslyn watched the scene of carnage form amidst the central rift—until it was nearly the same as the sight she’d witnessed when she returned to the Temple of Sacred Ashes four days later. The Fade blistered and grew around it, causing pieces of the temple to break off and float in the air. 

Roslyn dropped to the ground, howling in pain. She watched herself writhe and shudder, clenched her left hand to ignore the memory—the gauntlet of green, the feeling of being torn apart, of her skin being peeled back and sparks replacing her blood. 

She felt the elf step up behind her, felt his breath rush past her neck. 

“ _Run._ ”

The lurch echoed in her own stomach as she watched herself jerk upright, and look back. The Fade expanded in a flurry of light. It was the same plane of shifting grass. The same rocky hills leading up to the mountain upon which the Black City stood. 

Figures swarmed the horizon. Demons, coming to claim her, and the anchor. 

Roslyn ran, and continued to run, stumbling over the leagues as fast as she could. She climbed the mountain, kept climbing, until her palms were torn by the rocks and her legs shook from the effort. She ran through the Black City, smearing her own blood across the surfaces she hit on her way to find the source of the voice calling to her. 

The elf’s voice. That soft, silent voice. Wreathed in black. Waiting. 

“I find it rather interesting that you managed to survive,” he murmured, walking around her to watch as she splashed into the black pool, scrambled back and looked around desperately for someone who might help her. “You should have died from the initial blast. No mortal has channeled such power before. You _should_ have been incinerated, just like the Divine. Just like Coryphea.” He made a soft _tsk_ with his tongue. “You spoiled everything. Well, not for me. No, _I_ thought it was extraordinary. You couldn’t have done a better job if I’d planned it myself.”

He reached out with his hand, only to pause as the memory of Roslyn surged to her feet in the pool. She looked down at her left hand, pulsing and sparking with green light. She closed her eyes against the sound of hundreds of demons swarming into the city behind her. The gauntlet bristled. The green light swelled. The water surged up to cocoon her in black shadows. And the wolf stepped from those shadows wreathed around her. With eyes that burned green at first, and then darkened to a burning red. Its form expanded and grew, fueled by the terror and anger thudding inside Roslyn’s heart. It snapped at the coming demons, ripping into a few of the first to lunge for her. It was wrath and ruin incarnate. It was everything she felt, the very core of her being. Chaos. Destruction. Rage. 

She watched herself stumble back, felt her own mouth open on a scream—and a rift tore through the air above her. Her body flew up, pulling the wolf with her, just as the full army of demons broke through the palace and swarmed the courtyard. 

There was only a hint, the faintest glimmer of silver light, but Roslyn swore she could see a hand reaching out toward the rift, outlined in the echo of wings. Black eyes. A woman’s face. 

The winged woman.

The scene faded. The courtyard bled back into the calm, lovely place of pale marble and fresh morning sun. 

Roslyn stared at the pool, rippling now with a faint breeze, and fought the urge to vomit. 

She had activated the orb. It had not been Coryphea, or the Divine’s death. _She_ had pulled it from Coryphea, touched it, and caused the explosion. She had killed the Divine. She had killed all of them. 

“The blame does not rest entirely with you, of course,” the elf said over the horrible spiraling of her mind. “Coryphea activated its magic before you entered the room. The ritual for the blood sacrifice had already begun. But yes, you were the one to move the final piece forward. It was you who caused the explosion. After the Divine’s ritual and symbolic sacrifice, I believe Coryphea intended to convert those gathered for the Conclave, to make them her first supplicants.” He paused, letting the truth sink in. “A pity you had to kill the rest. You might have started with a few more soldiers.”

Horrified tears burned down Roslyn’s cheeks. “Andraste—”

“A thought supplied by one of the soldiers who found you. A lingering impression of that figure in the Fade behind you. I had to invent some explanation for the woman they saw, and he had already done the work for me.” A note of sly amusement entered the elf’s voice. “I thought it fitting for the rest of them to believe the same. It took very little to implant the idea in those who watched you being carried back into Haven. Most of the humans who so feared you were willing to believe you were divinely sent. You simply needed to prove your worth.”

“Why?” she breathed, hands shaking. She could barely hold her grip on the hilt of her sword. 

“Stories have power. Belief has power. You were ill-suited to match Coryphea as the petulant child put forth by an old, tired woman already losing the support of her feeble rebellion. I wanted to even the playing field for the coming war, to make you _more_. You know this, of course, but I can understand your confusion. In your current state.”

Roslyn turned, grabbing onto something to save her from the crushing guilt in her heart. “You _wanted_ me to become the Herald? What— _why_?”

The elf watched her, bemused. His eyes flashed in anticipation. “I’m curious to see who comes out on top. Truth be told, I’d rather it was you. That’s why I brought you here. The Calling was my invention. A distraction while Coryphea crippled Orlais. You took your time about it.” A smile tugged at his beautiful, dark eyes. “The Wardens never could have released me, of course, but they might have found other things to amuse them down here in the depths of the world. So many things have been locked away over the millennia, I wouldn’t be surprised if they stumbled onto something powerful enough to justify their beloved sacrifice.”

“Is this a game to you?” she choked. “Tell me what the fuck you are, or I’ll—”

“No, I don’t think I will.” 

He said it so simply, without any affectation—and yet she felt her hand unclench. The hilt of her sword dropped to the marble. The heavy thunk sent a spike of dread into her stomach. Her entire arm began to shake as she fought to pick it up. 

But she couldn’t. She couldn’t move. 

“I will tell you what I choose to tell you, and nothing more.” He walked toward her, his expression serene, his gait measured. He took her chin in his hands and twisted her face so she was looking directly at him. He hummed, watching her fury flash in her eyes, the only part of her which still felt like it belonged to her. “I see now why you bested my Envy. Force and rage only make you fight harder. Get you angry, and most would fall before your wrath. I wonder what it would take to learn why…” His fingers were soft on her skin, as he turned her face slightly side to side. His thumb swiped a horrible caress over her cheek. He let out a gentle laugh. “If only I had time.”

She managed to move her chin, jerking it slightly out of his grip.

“Yes,” he mused, pulling her back to look at him straight on, “you must be the last. You’re stronger than any of the others. Perhaps that is why she keeps trying to turn you. She’s never been so insistent in the past. Getting sloppy, my darling pet. She never learned the benefits of patience.” His smile faded, and the hunger in his eyes made her heart slam against her sternum. “You would do well to accept your role in all of this, Roslyn. You are a tool. A necessary tool, but a tool nonetheless. Your part in the events to come has already been written. Fighting against it, against me, is futile. Best Coryphea, break Thedas over your knee, it matters not. In fact I do so hope you succeed. I’ve never been fond of that clawing, overeager bitch. She was always only a necessary, if loathsome, investment. In the end, when the time is right, you and I will find each other once more, and we will finish what was started so many years ago. The sooner you realize you have no say in your fate, the easier it will be for you. You might even find you enjoy it, in time.”

He continued to look at her fondly, with affection, as if her defiance was something amusing. His grip was light and intimate, and it sent waves of disgust through her stomach. She could barely think with the vice of paralysis around her, the overwhelming urge to relax, to submit, to whatever fell domination this demon was trying to exert over her. It _would_ be easier, he was right. She could feel that much. As if in fighting him, she were somehow fighting herself. 

But that kernel of light in her chest would not quiet, and she would not break now. 

It took every ounce of willpower, but she forced opened her lips, and spat onto his face. “ _Fuck. You,_ ” she ground out.

He didn’t flinch, but the hunger in his eyes died. He dropped her chin and wiped his cheek, looking curiously at her. “Interesting. A demonstration, then.” He snapped his fingers, and the scenery around her shifted. 

The Black City returned, its gleaming surfaces ominous in the shifting green light. Roslyn stared at herself again, hunched over now, hands pressed to her ears as she screamed. The sound echoed over the city until it filled every particle of air, ran over every glassy wall. The wolf was beside her, nudging her in concern, while Hawke was trying to wrench her hands down. 

The image of her faded, causing Hawke to swear and grab for her. The wolf looked up, locked eyes with her on the other side of the pool, and howled. Hawke spun, eyes wide with alarm. 

“There is nothing you can do to stop me,” the elf murmured, so close to her ear she could almost feel his lips. 

Another shrieking cry pierced the city. The ground thudded as something huge barreled toward the courtyard. Over her head, black wings obscured the sky. Two figures converged on the courtyard at the same time. One, the varterral, its clicking, shuddering cry rending the silence in two. It swiped at Hawke before he could turn, sweeping him off his feet. The second was a mass of black feathers, converging on the wolf. There was a flurry of snarls, the sound of ragged caws—and they were both gone in a wave of shadow. 

Every part of her screamed in outrage, but the only sound she could manage was a broken hiss. 

“One day,” the elf said, his voice seeming to snake into her mind, causing that kernel of light to rage and burn, “I’m going to ask you about that wolf. If it’s your idea of a joke, I don’t find it amusing.”

Tears streaked down her cheeks as she tried to get away from the elf, to burst forth with force and arcane energy and help Hawke, but she was locked in place, and her aura would not answer her call. 

Hawke had risen again, blood pouring from his temple. He kept looking to her, crying, “Hold on, love.” He dodged a swipe of the varterral’s leg, rolled to miss a quick burst of force that shattered the black glass wall of the palace courtyard. “I’m—”

“Be done with it,” the elf called, raising his voice slightly. 

The varterral’s head swiveled, seemed to nod in assent, and then it stabbed its pincer through Hawke’s chest. 

Roslyn jerked forward, her boot scuffing against the black glass at her feet. Her heart leapt into her throat, strangled on a cry of pure denial.

For a moment, Hawke looked surprised, chin falling to look down at the silver appendage lodged inside him. He let out a soft, broken laugh, blood dripping from his lips. His staff clattered to the ground as his grip released. 

And in a wave of shadow, he disappeared with the varterral. 

Roslyn stared at his staff, saw the imprint of blood on the worn leather wrappings before the hooked blade at its end. 

“Do you understand now?” the elf murmured, fingers dancing lightly over the back of her neck. He seemed to be toying with a curl of her hair—his touch propriety, and horrible. “The sooner you work with me, the easier it will be. I don’t want to break you again.”

The kernel of light blazed inside her, furious, roaring. It grew teeth and claws. It raged against the confines of the cage this elf had forced her into. And in some distant part of her mind, she felt a tether snap. 

White light burst from her hands, scoring the black glass with a sear of ember-red fire. The vice around her released, and she turned, pouring every ounce of fury she had into one, singular blast. 

She saw the elf’s face transform, from surprise to something darker, something like realization, his features outlined in brilliant white light, and then he was gone. 

Her scream shattered the glass walls around her, whipped the water from its pool to splash up into the air. She let herself expand and burst, her aura reacting with singular defiance to the silence choking her mind. The shadows were banished, the city erupting with white light as the Fade bent to her will.

But there was no sign of Hawke or the wolf. There was nothing. She was alone. 

Her voice died, and she was left once more in the echoing silence of the Black City, broken now, as it should always have been. 

She felt nothing of either of them. Saw nothing, except Hawke’s staff lying on the shattered glass on the other side of the empty pool. She reached out for his aura, but there was no trace of him. She delved deep into her chest, searching for some ember of the wolf, some hint that it was still there, somewhere, just as it had been when she bound it in Redcliffe. 

But she felt nothing. 

She looked up, staggered a few paces. She grabbed the threads of her aura and threw them out to the Fade. Demons flickered at the very edges of her consciousness, but they vanished at once. She tried to pull one in, to force it to work for her, to find her wolf—but they fled from her. _They_ fled from _her_. She cried out over the Black City, trying to pour all her energy and might into the anchor, into searching for some shred of the wolf. 

But there was nothing. 

The horrible, gut-wrenching thought that she might have sealed Hawke’s fate with her explosion made her sink to her knees. She might have banished the wolf’s energy in her blast to destroy the elf. The anchor was still there. Pulsing. Steady, if a bit ragged. But there was no wolf. There was no Hawke. 

She’d killed them both. 

Tears burned down her cheeks as her chest ached from the burning. It was horrible, the heat inside her growing so hot that she felt like ripping her heart out to be rid of it. 

Andraste had not chosen her. It was a story, made up by…that _thing_ that had brought her here. Convinced her to step easily into his trap. She was just a stupid girl looking for answers where there were none. 

And it had gotten Hawke killed. She had destroyed the wolf, finally, in her search. She bent forward and screamed into the black glass at her feet. The Fade warped and rippled, the impact of her grief blown over the plains and through the air surrounding the mountain. More shattering. More breaking. The Black City was nothing but fragile crystal now. She wanted to slam her fists into the mountain and rid herself of any reminder that she…

That she…

“I’m such a fool,” she muttered, bending over her shaking hands. 

“You’re not, actually.”

Her head whipped up with a brief flicker of hope that she would see Hawke, that he had somehow managed to survive.

But it was not Hawke who walked toward her over the shattered glass of the courtyard. 

It was the demon wearing the Marquis of Serault’s face. 

“Wait, wait,” he said as she surged upright, magic crackling over her arms. In the sky overhead, lightning flashed. A storm brewed over the mountain. “Don’t kill me. I’m here to help you.”

“ _You_ ,” she nearly snarled, stepping forward and caging the demon in an arcane prison. She conjured shards from the broken palace, shot them directly into his face. Tried to break him as she had broken the elf.

He grimaced as he cut through the bonds of her magic and danced from her projectiles. Not easily, it seemed, as she felt a bristle of power waft over her. Too fast to pick out any sense markers, but there was something unfixed about it. Something purposefully hidden. “Yes, me,” he said quickly. “Someone who has chosen _not_ to kill you twice now.”

“That was a mistake.” A spire broke off from a nearby tower and slammed into the space he’d occupied only a moment before. 

A delighted smile crossed his face as he continued to step away from her. “There are many people who might agree with you.

She cried out in frustration and clapped her hands together—a pool of black energy spiraling under his feet and spreading over the entirety of the palace courtyard. The buildings shook and rattled, echoing the fierce horror in her chest. This world was nothing, an illusion. It was hers, and it was empty. The mountain itself groaned as she stepped toward this demon who thought to wear a human’s face. 

“In fact, there’s probably a whole _line_ of people who would happily applaud you for the service of ending my life for good.” He batted away more shards of glass, purple and red magic flickering in clouds around him as he countered her attacks. “However.”

He held up his hand, and a flash of white made her falter. 

A crystal, twin to the one around her own neck, sat on his palm. 

The city shuddered to a standstill, glass hovering and floating in the air around her. Just like it had in the ruined temple where all of this had begun.

“It’s not real,” he said slowly, his bright green eyes blazing as he watched her carefully. “Just an image. But I imagine this stone has caused you no small amount of grief over the past few months.” He paused, anticipation in the curl of his lips. “Wouldn’t you like to know what it is?”

She threw a tendril of force to pull the hilt of her sword into her palm. The blade erupted into life, throwing off waves of energy that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. The broken buildings began to circle faster. “Are you calling in your next question?”

“I would be more than happy to answer your questions, my friend,” he dropped his hand and the white crystal vanished, “but right now, you need to get back to your Inquisition. They’re not doing well without you.”

Her heart clenched in alarm, the anchor responding and bristling. As if it could sense the direction of her thoughts, the air rippled in front of her. The buildings and glass fell, shattering in tinkling echoes of grief.

“See?” He grinned. “Wasn’t that helpful?”

She felt the Veil pull on her, almost as if this were all just a dream from which she was about to wake. 

Her eyes flickered to the staff on the floor between them. Hawke’s staff. Discarded. Dropped as he—

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t kill you,” she muttered, unable to stop her tears. They burned down her cheeks, over the same place the elf had horribly caressed her. She fought the urge to vomit.

The demon watched her, a strange tension entering his eyes. Eyes that were green, and bright. Glowing. Eyes that were…familiar. 

He straightened, and clenched his jaw. “Because you and I have work to do, Roslyn. Because that—,” a tremor seemed to ripple through his body, as if he were fighting to hold onto his shape, “ _nightmare_ you just banished has many enemies. And right now, I am the only one who might be able to find the answers you seek.”

“You’re lying,” she said through gritted teeth. The mountain rumbled. The ground cracked. Silver smoke rose up out of the fissures around her feet. “All of you are _lying_.”

“I’m not.” He took a step toward her, letting his hands fall to his side. Leaving his chest opened, and unguarded. “I told you before. I don’t lie.”

She gestured to his face. “This is a lie.”

“It’s not. The marquis died nearly two years ago, leaving this body open. I’ve been living in it ever since.”

“Impersonating him.”

Annoyance flashed across his face. “All right, fine. _One_ lie. Everything else I’ve told you has been true.”

“My wolf?”

His gaze darkened. “The thing in your hand is gone. I don’t know where, but you don’t have time to look for it.”

Her chin trembled as she fought the urge to collapse again. She wanted to believe he was lying. That all of it was a lie. That she could close her eyes and open them again on that bridge with Hawke, before she’d sent him to his death. 

Her jaw clenched as she stared. She should kill him. He was a demon, and clearly tricking her. Hadn’t all of this been reason enough never to trust anything she couldn’t see with her own fucking eyes?

But something was stopping her. 

“Make your choice, beastie,” he said slowly, his eyes never leaving hers even as the mountain shook and glass fell to the ground only a few feet to his left. “Kill me or leave to save your Inquisition. You can’t do both.”

Her heart burned for blood. For _something_ to fill the emptiness in her chest. It would be so easy to break him. To break it all. To sunder this mountain and reality and life. 

To keep going. To open. To end. 

But like the fool she was, she lowered her sword. 

His eyes flashed, and he gave a sharp laugh of relief. “You won’t regret this.”

She already did. 

He took a few steps back as she called on the anchor, and the Veil answered. She watched him retreat, a cloud of purple dust rising up to swallow him. “Wait.”

The demon turned, his unassuming profile growing sharp with the darkness of his magic. 

“You still owe me an answer.”

He smiled.

“The winged woman, is she Andraste?”

Tension grew in his eyes as he looked away. Something in the flicker of his aura tasted of grief. “No,” he murmured, his voice sounding almost human in its rasp. “No, she is not. She never was.”

The demon vanished in his cloud of violet smoke, leaving Roslyn in the center of the ruined city. Alone. Her rage dimmed. The mountain shuddered to a hesitant silence. The remnants of the city mocked her. Taunted her. There was no sound. There was nothing left but shattered glass. A spray of blood. 

She stared at the last place she’d seen Hawke as long as she could, hating the weakness trembling in her hands, the sharp keening pulling at her chest. She held up her hand, and pulled Hawke’s staff toward her. She gripped it so tight she nearly snapped the metal, before reminding herself that it was all that was left of him. 

_Maker forgive me_ , she thought, one last tear burning down her cheek. She cut herself off from the pain, building up a wall to ignore the guilt, the horror, at what she had done. The empty void in her chest grew wide, and she thought for a moment that it might swallow her whole. 

_What have I done?_

Roslyn took a horrible breath, and stepped back through the Veil. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you guys have weekend plans or...


	52. The Awful Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Fortress" by Queens of the Stone Age](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dNwNSU5NikU&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S&index=55&t=0s)

The waking world slammed down around Roslyn. Her body tightened, tensed, every piece of her fighting the sensation of overwhelming constriction. The sounds of shrieking and the clash of metal pulsed around her through a fog. The space around her was clear for a moment, long enough for her to retrieve another vial of lyrium, to prod the anchor to see if…without the wolf she could still use it.

Though there was no flicker of connection, of sentience, it answered her just as readily. She didn’t know whether to be relieved, or horrified. 

The lyrium slipped down her tongue like a fresh, cool draught of spring water. Her flesh sang. 

And the darkspawn swarmed. Two blades cut across her barrier, dinging the steel across her upper arm. She blasted outward with a wave of force, scattering the darkspawn who had turned to see their new adversary. A few of the heartier genlocks managed to stay on their feet, grinning horribly at her as they advanced once more. She sent shards of arcane light into their chests. The smell of rank blood and bile splashed out with a wave of ichor, painting the dark floor with their offings. 

She took a moment to gather her bearings. She stood in the mouth of the hole the darkspawn had blasted through before descending upon the thaig. There were hundreds surrounding her on all sides. Dark shapes glinting with yellow eyes in the darkness at her back, at her front. Through the hole, she heard the Inquisition fighting alongside the Wardens, but couldn’t tell from the noise which way the battle had turned. 

Hawke’s staff hummed faintly under her hand, still feeling of him—of rust and wine, a soft laugh in a darkened room. She shoved the feeling aside, honing herself to a cutting edge. All her guilt, all her grief, she poured into her blade, and let the light burn back the darkness threatening to swallow her. As the anchor sparked and rose to her will, she waited, hating herself—but there was no sign of the wolf. Only its absence in the paths it had forged through her mind. In the lingering sense of order to combat the chaos of her magic. 

She pulled a barrier around herself, let it hum with her memory of her wolf, and lost herself to the fight.

Her magic arced through darkspawn one by one, and sometimes ten by ten, searing off limbs and spilling blackened blood onto the ground. It splashed against her face, her chest. It marked her as she cut through the masses. Every burn of her limbs or gash in her armor was just another beat of her heart. The motions came easily, the anchor answered her without a struggle as she pulled boulders rimmed in green fire to slam into groups of hurlocks. She pooled force and battered her enemies with arcane lightning. She seared through the legs of three ogres before they even had time to turn and see her in the darkness. Her magic twisted to her command and she carved out a space for herself as she moved steadily through the darkspawn to her people.

And every time she stopped to breathe, to reinforce her barrier, to down another vial of lyrium, she saw Hawke’s face—caught in a shocked, incredulous smile, blood leaking out the side of his lips and down the scruff of his chin. 

So she didn’t stop. She moved through the hole and into the thaig, the faint light of the lyrium veins showing her just how far she’d come. She heard the calls of surprise and relief, the clarion cry of the Inquisition horn. 

Through the mass of darkspawn, she caught glimpses of the Grey Wardens fighting. They kept well away from her, as she severed heads and sent limbs flying off into the abyss beyond the edge of the thaig. It was mostly wardens on the front line, in the fray, though she caught a faint hint of dark green from time to time, the golden, burning eye of the Inquisition. Sometimes she saw their expressions—awe and hope, relief. 

It made her want to scream. 

The fighting lasted another hour before the horde finally turned and fled. They scurried back from her searing blade, tried to get out of the path of her burning aura. Her lyrium burned lower now, but it was still there. Just enough to keep her moving, to let her feel the shuddering heart of the earth beneath her feet. 

The last trickle of darkspawn fell back, the only true threat remaining that of two ogres barreling down into the tired soldiers at her back—lost to their bloodlust. 

Roslyn moved forward, pushing her aura into her blade. It sparked and screamed in her grip. She dodged the jagged axe of the first, popping its arm out of socket with a controlled blast of force. Hawke’s staff splintered the second ogre’s horns, humming under the monster’s cry of pain. Conjuring an arcane prison, she pulled the first ogre into the air and held it while she rained green fire down on the second one’s head. It stumbled, she vaulted herself up, and she speared her sword through its eye. She rode it down as she fell, rolling to a stop and bringing down the hand which still held Hawke’s staff to slam the ground. Her arcane prison contracted, and then burst. Spectral hands ripped the ogre in half, and its stinking, steaming corpse fell to the ground in a splash of ichor. 

Breath even, heart beating hard, but not fast, she straightened. Silence fell over the thaig. She took two steps forward, picking off the last few darkspawn as they fled back through the hole they’d blasted. With a wave of her hand, chunks of sundered earth rolled up to block the passage. She gathered as much of the ichor splashed against her armor as she could, and knelt to inscribe a glyph of protection into the bottom of the hastily formed wall. It was sloppy, and could be broken by any mage with enough time on their hands, but she counted on it holding just long enough to guard their retreat. 

As the magic released, she threaded a bit of the anchor’s power through hers—firming up the spell, layering another construct around her own sloppy glyph—she felt her aura flicker as the last of the lyrium faded. She wondered horribly if the wolf might not have done a better job if it were still alive.

Her chest hollowed out, a gnawing hunger seeming to pull at her stomach. A slight twinge started in her temples, but she ignored it. The anchor was sparking with magic. Her aura was strong, solid. She could cast without the lyrium. She was in no danger of collapsing. 

But without the soft, singing hum of lyrium in the back of her mind, there was room for other thoughts to enter. Thoughts which would break her, if she let them surface fully. 

Roslyn turned, sheathing her sword, and walked back to her waiting troops. 

There were a few cries of greeting, a few laughs and whoops of triumph, but most were silent. Among the corpses littering the ground, she saw Inquisition armor and helmets. She didn’t take too long to examine the faces of the soldiers watching her—most of them tired, barely keeping on their feet—just long enough to find the closest Grey Warden. 

“Do you still hear the Calling?” she asked, her voice alarmingly cold even to her ears. 

The young woman, looking barely old enough to lift a sword, let alone fight in an army, opened her mouth, but no sound came out. 

“The Calling,” Roslyn snapped, stepping forward to hold the warden’s gaze as she flinched. “Can you still hear the false Calling?”

The man beside her answered, his voice wavering as he tried to sound firm, “No, your worship. It’s…gone.”

Whispers ran through the watching soldiers. The silence seemed to shift, growing taut. 

She turned to an Inquisition scout, swallowing her dread at what the answer might be. “Lieutenant Rylen?”

“Alive, Inquisitor,” he said at once, stepping forward to incline his head. 

“Tell him to meet me in the pavilion on the southern edge of the thaig, before the sundered bridge.”

Eyes bright with fierce awe, he nodded again and ran through the gathered crowd. 

“My offer stands, Wardens,” she called, raising her voice so that everyone watching could hear. “Lay down your weapons, and your lives will be spared. Attempt to fight, or flee, and you will be cut down. This is your final warning.”

A far distant crumbling of rock was the only answer for a long moment. And then, in a slow, halting wave, every warden in view disarmed themselves, and surrendered. 

She should have felt satisfied, grateful that no more blood had to be shed this day due to their stupidity. 

But all she could feel was anger. And the small desire to enact retribution herself. The anger was misplaced, of course. It wasn’t the Wardens who were to blame for this. Not entirely.

She moved through the crowds, not waiting to count how many men she had lost, or how many darkspawn they’d killed before she arrived. She kept walking, kept her eyes forward. The smell of rot and decay suffused the air, the odor of blood and sweat coating her tongue and making her want to vomit. The darkness over the edge of the thaig seemed to pull at her, as if the thing which had wrapped a tentacle around her ankle could sense her, and wanted more. 

The soldiers around her began to form into disparate groups, shoving aside the corpses of the darkspawn, organizing the dead, as if, now that the fighting was done, they couldn’t stay still. 

_Keep walking_ , she told herself, trying not to see Hawke lying amongst the fallen. _Keep. Walking._

She had nearly made it to the pavilion before she heard the voice of the person she had not let herself think about. The one person who would break her forced silence, break everything. The one person she had not let herself think about as she fought the darkspawn.

“By the fucking Maker—Red, hey!” Varric called, half laughing as he pushed through the crowds to get to her. Aeducan was behind him, followed by Sera and Harding. All of them looked tired, but she saw no injuries on them, save a cut on Varric’s face, and a bruise forming on Aeducan’s pale cheek.

She stopped, turned to face him. Behind the small group, she watched Carver Hawke step forward slowly. He looked to be injured, limping slightly with his hand draped over Rainier’s shoulders. Despite herself, she met his gaze, saw a brief flicker of hope that made him look young—before his eyes darkened, and fell to the staff clutched in her hand. 

“You had us worried,” Varric continued over the silence, his voice jarringly bright. Every inflection sent spikes of guilt into her stomach. “I mean, shit, you know how to drum up the suspense. We thought you and Hawke—”

“Where is my brother?” Carver asked, his voice cracking slightly. His head was tipped back, almost in a challenge. 

She felt the eyes of every single soldier in earshot turn to her, felt their anticipation rise and strangle her throat. She held Carver’s gaze, her anger fading. In its absence, she felt the Void at her back rise to swallow her whole. 

There were no tears she could shed. She would not let herself cry for Hawke. Not when she was the reason he was dead. 

Her chin quivered once as she clenched her jaw. She forced herself to look at Varric, to see the relief freeze on his face. To see the color bleed from his tanned cheeks. 

His voice was small, almost trembling, as he asked, “Where’s Hawke?”

He might as well have sunk a bolt directly into her heart. 

She thought of words she might say to make his death mean something, how he had sacrificed himself to ensure she walked free. That he had been a true hero until his final breath. That she would honor his death by ensuring that Coryphea was brought to justice. 

But it would be a lie. And she had never been good at lying. 

He had died for nothing. He had died because she’d been stupid enough to chase after a confirmation that she was chosen. That she was special.

“Where’s Hawke?” Varric asked again, imploring, as if he were begging her to deny the truth. 

She gave him a small shake of her head, unable to give anything else. 

His gaze went distant. He looked…lost. “Well,” he whispered, and did not continue. 

Roslyn walked forward, forcing herself to look at Carver. Tears swam in his bright blue eyes, his jaw clenched in a hatred so fierce, she wondered if he might attack her. 

She wondered if she would let him. 

Hawke’s staff balanced in her hand as she held it out, covered in the blood of darkspawn and demons. In Hawke’s own blood, where the varterral had skewered him with its claw. 

Carver looked at the staff, grief and anger warring for place in his expression. He began to shake in Rainier’s grip, but he said nothing. When he took the staff from her hand, it was quick, jerking, as if he couldn’t bear to touch her even for a moment. 

She stood before him for one more moment, swallowing the truth. That she had taken his brother from him. That it was her fault. That all of this was her fault. 

But instead, like the coward she was, she murmured, “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t meet her gaze. He shrugged out of Rainier’s embrace, waving him off when the old man tried to help him. He turned, and limped through the crowd, his brother’s staff clutched in his shaking hand. 

Roslyn stared at his slumped shoulders, giving herself one single breath to compose herself, and then she ascended the stairs to the pavilion.

A group had gathered to wait for her, Rylen at the front. His helmet off and his sweat-slicked hair in a mess, he at least looked whole. Tired, but whole. “Begin the march back to the eluvians,” she said, schooling her voice into iron. “I want us to be ready to move as soon as possible.”

“Aye, your worship.” His expression flashed between wariness and fatigue. “What of…the dead?”

Her steps faltered as the weight of the question fell down around her. She felt as if the entire cavern was collapsing, the sheer force pressing her down into the ground. 

“I…” She fumbled for something to say. With Haven, she hadn’t seen them gather what bodies they could pull from the wreckage. She had stayed away, in Skyhold, hiding from the reality of the loss. Had they been buried? Burned? 

Maker damn her, but she didn’t know.

“If I might make a suggestion, my lady,” Rylen said, his voice hatefully gentle, “it would take too much time to bring them to the surface. Better to give them a pyre down here, once we’re clear of the cavern.”

She nodded, swallowing back the emotion screaming to break free from her lips. _Shove it down. Disconnect. Remake yourself out of steel_. “Throw the darkspawn over the side,” she managed, looking away from the flicker of disgust in his eyes. “Into the water.” 

“The water?”

“There’s a lake at the bottom.”

_Let the monsters feed the monsters._

“And Clarel, your worship?”

Roslyn blinked, looked back at him. “She’s alive?”

Rylen nodded. “She rallied the Wardens and turned them against the darkspawn after,” he faltered, averting her gaze, “after the bridge collapsed.”

“Put her under watch. Separate her from the rest of her commanders.” She looked over to where Varric was still standing, blank eyed in front of Aeducan and Rainier. Harding seemed to be speaking to him in low, soothing tones, but he looked like a ghost of himself. “I want all of the commanders separated and watched.”

At her voice, Aeducan looked up, and her sharp grey eyes met hers. 

“At least four soldiers to every warden of rank,” she continued, letting some of her anger bleed into her voice. “No exceptions.”

Roslyn turned without another word and walked toward the shardstone sitting in the middle of the pool. She felt eyes follow her—Isahn, Dorian, Solas. All of them standing silent. Waiting. 

Solas’s aura reached out for hers, but she shoved him away. If she let him in now, she would break. 

“Has there been any sign of Bard?”

Silence. 

“Well?” she snapped, looking from Isahn to Dorian. She couldn’t look at Solas. Not yet. 

“No,” Isahn answered, straightening as he studied her with his impenetrable black gaze. A splash of ichor marred the tattoos on the side of his face. “Nothing’s come out since the vaterral.”

“Is that what that thing is called?” Dorian asked, looking shaky, but fine. “Andraste’s mercy, I—”

“I need to seal the doors,” she said, not looking at them but across the shattered bridge, mist still curled from the yawning darkness. “Is there any reason I should expect them not to respond to a simple warding glyph?”

“They were made to be sealed,” Isahn said. “Just closing them again should activate the enchantment. I can come with—”

“No.” Roslyn backed away, hand clenching. 

“You don’t want to see what’s inside?” Dorian asked, frustration marring his concern. “You don’t want to know what they were looking—”

She cut him off with a look, some part of her hating the severity of what he must see in her eyes. Her gaze flicked to Isahn, but he said nothing. “Don’t follow me.” 

She turned, and to her immense relief, they all remained. The tears she could no longer stop streaked down her cheeks, burning as they carved tracks through the smeared blood and dirt. 

The hole in the bridge was smaller than she’d expected. She only needed a light push of force to lift her up over the thirty or so feet. Rolling to a stop, she let a small sob break from her lips. She swiped violently at her cheeks and clapped her hands, pulling the massive doors shut before she could look through them to whatever was locked behind it. She thought she knew. The Nightmare. The demon who had tricked her into thinking she’d been chosen. Erasing her memory. Manufacturing the false Calling. All to get her where he wanted her to be. Pulling her strings like a fucking marionette.

She was such a fool.

Sure enough, the enchantment snapped into place. Green light spread out from her hand where she stoked it with her anchor, flowing up the length and sealing the door tight. 

It was a good thing, too, as she didn’t know if she could have done it without the wolf. 

She could only open, not close. Break, not mend. Destroy, not create.

She was not made for creation. Only death. 

She had to clench her jaw against another sob. With her hand upheld, she felt the magic work through her. Magic of order, of symmetry, of the subtle design held within the glyph on her palm. Green light threaded through the doors, illuminating carvings in the stone—an elven figure with hands crossed over their mouth. 

Hand trembling, she stared up at the carving. Elven. The crossroads. The pavilion. The Nightmare. It was connected, somehow. But she couldn’t muster the energy to care. Not now. Not here. Maybe in the light of day, with the sky over her head. 

Not trapped in the earth like that monster in the lake below. 

Claustrophobia crept into the marrow of her bones, and she fought the urge to blast the doors with magic. Anything to make her not feel small. She fumbled without thought for the last of her lyrium vials. The power washed back down her throat, sweet and familiar. She relaxed as her body sang with magic. The anchor answered her as well, seeming to vie for place inside her. Pushing out the fear and replacing it with power, sure and strong.

It took her another few minutes to work up the courage to return to the thaig. From across the bridge, it looked small. Broken. Fires burning in the shattered buildings. Smoke already drifting up into the expansive ceiling. The veins of lyrium, she realized with a jolt, had dimmed. It gave off only a faint glow now, the red slightly more violent than the blue. Whatever had been awoken in the depths of the earth had, apparently, returned to its sleep.

The crowd waiting for her had grown larger. Harding and Sera had joined Dorian, Solas, and Isahn. Varric was absent, something which should not have made her relieved—but she couldn’t bear to face him. She didn’t know how she ever could again. Maybe Cole was with him. She hoped he was. 

Amund stood like a giant behind Qestyra, whose hair had come loose from her braids and was tangled down around her chin, spattered with blood.

“The tremors have stopped,” Roslyn said before anyone could speak, directing her gaze toward the dwarf. “The lyrium is fading.”

Qestyra tilted her head. “It appears so. Whatever you did deep down in the abyss calmed the earth.”

Roslyn nodded. 

“My people will be leaving you now, Inquisitor. Our paths no longer converge.”

“I appreciate the help, Qestyra.”

“The feeling is mutual.” The dwarf smiled, the effect unnerving on her tattooed face. It made her look like a grim reflection of the fallen statues at her back. “Should you ever find yourself near the Frostback Basin, and have need of sharp blades, seek out Gar-Eyrth, City of Light. You would be welcome at our hearth.” 

Roslyn watched the dwarf go, shadows peeling out of the alleys to follow her. More dwarves with similar tattoos. She’d never heard of that dwarven city. Part of her knew she should be curious, but she set the thought aside. She didn’t have the energy.

“Well, that was something magnificent,” Amund bellowed, making Dorian and Sera jump. “Truly a fight worthy of brave warriors. You are indeed god-touched, Herald.”

Roslyn could not help her flinch at the title. 

It had been nearly a year since the sound of it made her want to scream. 

“You men fought well, Amund,” she forced herself to say. “You have a place in the Inquisition, should you want it.”

He laughed, the sound ringing false in the dim quiet of the thaig. “I think I might take you up on that. After we get out of this cursed hole, that is.” When no one answered him, he seemed to read the tension in the air. “We shall talk more in the sight of the gods, Herald.”

The silence he left in his wake made her skin crawl. 

“How many did we lose?”

More silence. 

“How _many?_ ” she repeated, her voice going sharp.

Harding answered, “We can’t know yet, your worship. We haven’t had time to make a full count.”

“Can you guess?”

“Three hundred. Maybe less. Maybe more. Nearly half the Wardens.”

The numbers flitted through her mind. She had no idea if that was an acceptable outcome or not. 

Three hundred lost. 

It was less than Haven. 

“What—” Dorian’s voice broke as he continued, “What happened?”

It took her a moment to smooth her voice. To hone it into something that cut out, rather than in. “I collapsed the bridge before you could get to me. It was going to fall soon, anyway, and the varterral only wanted me.”

“The what?” Sera asked, her voice uncharacteristically soft.

“Varterral,” Isahn answered for her. “A remnant of Elvhenan. An unkillable, unrelenting force of nature set to guard the most sacred of places.” His voice was hard, brittle. “It would not have stopped for anything, Inquisitor. You were right to sunder the bridge.”

She looked up at that, and nearly collapsed at the sympathy she saw in his dark eyes. 

_“Right?”_ Dorian shouted. “She was _right_ to send herself falling down into the abyss? _Right_ to sacrifice—”

“And what would you have had me do, Dorian?” she asked, trying to keep her voice down, but unable to stop the anger welling up inside her. It wasn’t for him. Of course it wasn’t. It was for her and her alone. But he was standing in front of her, and he was the one who had spoken first, and though he didn’t deserve it, she could not help but direct the fury of emotion somewhere else before it consumed her. “Let that _thing_ bring down the bridge with you three on it as well so we all died? Let it turn on the Inquisition? I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it. Only—,” she stumbled, unable to stop the tears from welling in her eyes, “only Hawke could hurt it. Only blood magic. _Blood_ magic, Dorian. That’s the only thing that made any difference. Tell me what you could have done. _Please_.” The last came out broken, and she looked away, clenching her jaw. 

No one said anything for a long time. Her aura rippled, but she pulled it in, unwilling to let it expand. 

If she touched Solas, if she allowed herself to fracture even for one, small moment, she would not be able to pull herself back together. 

“But,” Sera began, sounding wary, “what…happened? How did you get up here after you… We all watched you fall, Roz.”

“You entered the Fade.”

Solas’s voice was hard, flat. Empty of anything she might take for comfort. She didn’t waste time wondering why. He might have been jealous, for all she knew. 

“What—like, _entered_ , entered? Like you stepped in with your own two feet?” Sera danced back, shaking out her hands. “Aw, balls, that’s weird. No. That’s too weird.”

“But that’s what happened to you before,” Harding said, sounding young and not at all like her normal self. “When Andraste—”

“I’m sure we all have things we could be doing,” Roslyn cut over her, walking forward before the truth could be seen in her eyes. “The sooner we get back to Ostagar, the better.”

 

~  ✧ ~

 

The smoke from the pyre followed Roslyn up into the world between the eluvians. It hung in the silent, pearlescent air, trailing her like a mourning shroud. She led the survivors of the battle below through the mirrors, and she saw again the similarity between this place and the one she had left behind. The one she had seen atop the mountain. 

All of it was elven. _Why_ was it all elven?

Would the wolf have known why?

The only time she faltered as she led her people up into the world once more was when she caught sight of the black mirror. Made of the same black glass which had made up the Black City. Only now, there was no crack down its surface. It was smooth, with no sign that it had ever been broken. It sat on its pedestal like all the others, jarring against the shifting pastel sky. 

“It would be best not to linger here, _da’shyl_.”

She tensed as she felt Isahn step up beside her. 

“Most of your soldiers are having a hard time as it is—”

He pressed a hand to her upper back, but she jerked away. Her aura snapped up in defense, the vestiges of the lyrium still in her blood reacting. She looked up, a flash of guilt flaring inside her chest when she saw his steady expression. 

Behind him, her friends were keeping their distance, watching her with a mixture of pity and alarm. 

“Keep going to Ostagar,” she bit out. “I need a moment alone.”

The keystone grew warm in her hand as she ignored Solas’s searching stare, and walked to the front of the column of soldiers. 

She activated the last eluvian, not bothering to look behind her to see if any of them followed. The fresh, clear air brought her no comfort, only the feeling of sudden, unnerving space. Her heart kicked into a sprint as she fought the urge to curl up on herself. To make herself small.

_Run._

The Nightmare’s voice spiked into her mind. Soft. Gentle. Barely more than a whisper—and yet so completely jarring it raised all the hair on her body in disgust. Her body tensed, and it was all she could do to keep walking, to get out of sight, before the rest of her soldiers came out of the eluvian behind her. 

The trees of the Korcari Wilds looked like the shifting, black trees which had plagued her dreams before the wolf. The shadows of the Fade before she knew what she was, before she’d convinced herself of the lie that she had some control over anything. They crowded in on her, looming. Her armor constricted, breath coming fast. 

No _._ She would not break. Not for this. Not now. She was the Inquisitor. She was—

_I had to invent some explanation for the woman they saw._

She was not the Herald of Andraste. 

She had never been.

Tears flooded her eyes. She clenched her jaw against the scream building inside her. The ground pitched forward, but she kept her footing. She kept walking. There was a stream nearby. She just—needed to splash cool water on her face. She needed—

She needed to wash her hands.

Her hands were bloody. 

_Blood trickling from Hawke’s mouth, his eyes wide in shock_ —

Hands shaking, she fell to her knees before the small stream. The water splashed frozen against her skin, but she didn’t care. She rubbed her hands until the skin was red and raw. The bite was welcome. Wanted. She scrubbed her face, trying to get the blood and dirt and darkness of that cave off her. She needed to stop the furious heat building in her chest. Her armor came off in bits and pieces, discarded around her on the ground as she threw them aside. She couldn’t breathe with it on. With it pressing her down into the ground. 

_The crease in his brow as he met her gaze, the confusion_ —

A twig snapped behind her. 

She lunged upright, calling on her sword. Looking for the next enemy. Needing to fight something. To make something else feel as horrible as she felt. To banish the sick paralysis creeping up her limbs.

Solas stood a good distance away in the shadow of the tree line. 

Anger flashed up her chest, burning. “I said I needed a moment _alone_ ,” she said, voice shaking. “What part of that did you not understand?”

His expression was closed, neutral. That damn cold mask firmly in place over his features. She hated that mask. Hated how he seemed to wear it so well. How he never seemed to have trouble keeping it on. 

If only she could be so skilled at hiding herself.

“Go on, then,” she said, stepping toward him, sword still rippling through the air. Arcs of white light danced across its length. “Were you going to comfort me, or just _stare_? Tell me to breathe and calm down? Tell me to focus on you? What? _What?”_ She shouted the last, breaking the silence of the cloud-covered day. Birds flew up from the trees around them. Black birds. 

_Birds with black wings, swarming the wolf in a storm of feathers—_

_A demonstration, then._

She ground her teeth, pressing the heels of her palms to her temples, trying to rid her mind of the demon’s words. It was so much worse than Envy, because it felt like it was coming from her. Like her own mind was whispering to her of failure and ruin.

“Get out,” she whispered, the buzzing of her sword not working to drown out the soft, sibilant voice of the Nightmare. “Get _out_ , damn it, get out, get…”

She yelled and threw the hilt of her sword away, the magic maintaining long enough to scar the ground and sear a chunk off of the tree it hit. 

Her fingers were already reaching for another vial of lyrium, anything to get the damned voice out. 

But there was only the vibration of the blood she had taken from Bard’s room.

Roslyn dropped to the ground. She slammed her fist against the wet earth again, so hard she felt bones crack, felt the rush of heat and fierce, throbbing pain. The pain helped to reorient her body, to remind her where she was, who she was. 

Not in the Fade. Not under the ground. Awake. Not dreaming. 

Shaking, she slumped down, cradling her hand in her lap. The same hand which had carried Hawke’s staff back to his little brother. 

A pitiful sound slipped past her lips before she clenched her jaw shut. The tears she could not help pouring freely now as she stared down at the hand now covered in her own blood. The anchor gleamed in the grey wilds light. Taunting her. She bowed over her broken hand, and wished it had been her killed down on that echoing mountain. 

It shouldn’t have been Hawke. It should have been her.

She felt Solas crouch next to her. A safe distance away, not imposing, but present. 

She wanted to scream at him, and keep screaming, and scream until there was nothing left. But she didn’t. She couldn’t push him away. 

And because she was weak, she looked up, and saw that his mask had slipped. Patience hung in his storm-blue eyes as he searched her face. Careful, pained. A sheen over a deep seated alarm he was no longer hiding. He held out his hand. Slowly, and hating how much she wanted the help, she laid her broken hand in his palm. He held her gaze as he healed the broken bones, waves of warm, comforting magic lapping over her aura. 

He kept her hand in his when he finished, reaching up timidly to cup her cheek with the other. In a voice which cracked with emotion, he whispered, “Tell me what happened. Roslyn,” he added, softly.

And like a dam whose cracks had grown too wide to remain whole, she broke. “It’s all my fault,” she whispered, hating how her feeble voice shook. “The demon—the Nightmare, it lured me there. All of it was a trap. All those people died for nothing.” She bent forward, trying to crush the guilt and shame which pounded in her chest. “It killed Hawke, and I could do nothing. It killed the wolf. I just stood there and watched. It…he made me watch. I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t _move_ —”

Solas pulled her into his chest as she devolved into full on sobs. His aura rose and hovered, waiting. 

She hated how much she wanted to lose herself in him, _hated_ how it helped drown out the noise of Hawke being skewered on that monster’s claws, _hated_ how nice it felt to be held, to feel small and safe, to let someone else bear the weight of her grief. 

In the end it didn’t matter what she hated. She loved him. And he was there. And her body reacted despite her better judgement. 

Her aura expanded and shattered, bursting into a thousand jagged shards. He didn’t flinch, but held her more closely. His hands braced her head and back, and he whispered something soft into her ear—soothing, lilting, like a song. Her tears fell thick like blood and she wrung herself out against him. She shoved every thought of shame and guilt into him, let it swallow him whole. 

There was too much inside for her to grieve alone. 

She didn’t know how long she sat there, cradled in the arms of her lover as he slowly, gently put her back together piece by ragged piece. It might have been an hour or a day. 

Eyes blurred with tears, throat hoarse from screaming into Solas’s chest, she whispered, “I killed the Divine.”

His hand stilled in its slow circling at the small of her back. 

“The orb. I was the one who activated it. I caused the explosion. I killed all those people. All of this—”

“Is not your fault.”

All thought of comfort and safety shattered in that simple statement. Because it was so, unequivocally false. It was a lie. And she would not let herself believe him this time.

Her jaw clenched and she straightened, shoved against his chest. “ _Don’t_ do that. You don’t get to excuse me from this. There is no other explanation for—” She untangled herself from him, getting to her feet. Needing to pace, needing to expel this rank knot inside her throat. “It’s _me_ , Solas. I activated the orb. I formed the wolf and then I killed it. I stepped into that pool and opened those doors. I keep _breaking_ , destroying, killing—I can’t stop it. Everything I do, no matter how much I train, I’m a walking disaster. I’m a fucking forest fire.” Her voice shook and she balled her hands into fists, fighting another surge of magic. White and silver sparks littered the ground, smoking where they hit the sparse grey grass. 

She turned and stared down at the gentle stream, watching the ripples of water break around rocks. “I thought if—if Andraste had chosen me, then it was all right. I could excuse this,” she gestured to her body, “all of it. I thought, _maybe_ , there was a reason I’m so angry. Why I can’t get rid of this rage that keeps erupting from me. But she _didn’t_ choose me. She’d _never_ choose me. It was just a lie. All of it was a lie. I’m just the monster who nearly killed her sister the moment her magic surfaced, who keeps killing, and killing—”

Solas rose and took her face in his hands, looking firmly into her eyes. “You are not a monster, Roslyn. You have never been.”

She shook her head but didn’t step away, tears wetting his fingers. “Yes I am. I’m a _monster_ , Solas—”

“In another world, you would have been perfect. You _are_ perfect.” His voice broke as he pressed a kiss to her brow, rested his forehead against hers. His grip tightened, holding her as she tried to deny his words. His aura wrapped around her, layering intent into every word he spoke. She could barely think for the depth of his conviction. “You ache and rage and scream because you are _real_. You beat against the bars of your cage because it _is_ a cage. Some people are meant for more than the world will ever give them. You were meant for more than this, _vhenan_. So much more. I am…so sorry.”

Roslyn closed her eyes. She wanted to believe him. But she couldn’t.

“I love you,” he murmured, “and I will not let you believe that you are anything less than extraordinary.”

“I’m not,” she sobbed, hands shaking as she reached up to grip his forearms, to hold onto him, to push him away, before she collapsed again. “I wasn’t chosen—”

“You were. The Inquisition chose you. Your people, who followed you into battle, _chose_ you. Your companions have chosen you time and time again.” He hesitated, and she felt a slight tremor in his aura. 

She opened her eyes to see him watching her with a heartbreaking ferocity. He blinked twice, the faintest hint of silver forming along the line of his lashes.

“I choose you,” he whispered, voice barely more than a rasp. “ _I_ choose you.”

Her chest constricted as she stared into his eyes. In any other moment, she would have been giddy with happiness to hear him say something so objectively sweet. She wanted it to fill her with warmth and light. She wanted to kiss him and let him brush away her tears. She wanted to be the kind of woman who could accept this, if only for a moment. 

But it wasn’t enough. And it might never be.

That certainty hung in her mind as she clung to him, as she gripped him tight against the horrible, wrenching thought that after everything, after waiting so long for him—it might not be enough.

“I don’t know how to live with this,” she whispered. 

“Yes, you do.” He wrapped his arms around her once more. “You harden your heart. You look to the next fight. You keep moving. And you never forget what you have lost. You persevere.” He pressed a kiss to her brow, hands shaking around her waist. “You survive.”


	53. Graves and Gallows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Ready for War" by Tommee Proffit ft. Liv Ash](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lMiryutApRk&t=0s&index=56&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S)

The haze of the Korcari Wilds had cleared with the setting of the sun. For the first time in what felt like months, Roslyn watched it stain the horizon red. In the absence of the clouds, she saw the far peaks of the western mountains loom jagged and austere against the bloody sky. The Wilds looked barren without the mist to soften their edges, spindly, gnarled trees reaching weak limbs upward, bogs of black water steaming slightly, whipped away by the cold winds from the south. 

There was a desolation to this place that went deeper than the witch moors. That whispered with the croaking frogs. That creaked with the dead trees. A desolation that she could sense in the air, and the smell.

“I…don’t understand.”

Her jaw clenched at Cassandra’s tight voice. It had been hours since they’d returned to Ostagar and done their final tally. Of the nearly one thousand wardens gathered, only four hundred and thirteen remained. The Inquisition had lost only two hundred and fifty five souls. Rylen had told her it was not a bad outcome. That they had expected to lose more, but the Wardens had taken most of the horde head on. Her late arrival also helped to turn the tide. They should be happy they didn’t lose any more.

Two hundred and fifty five. 

She wondered if other leaders in wartime kept track of how many lives had been lost because of them. 

“What don’t you understand?” she said slowly, trying to keep her voice calm. Upon arriving at Ostagar, she’d told Cassandra and Leliana to meet with her, alone. She’d thought about lying, about hiding the truth of what she’d learned in the Fade, of what she’d done—but seeing their faces broke her nerve. 

They deserved to know whom they’d chosen to lead their crusade. 

“You claim that you were the one to activate the orb, but you cannot explain how, or why.”

Roslyn swallowed her frustration and turned to meet Cassandra’s gaze. They had chosen to meet in an abandoned courtyard at the far edge of the compound. Roslyn had thought it best to be out of sight, should Cassandra decide to attack her for killing the Divine. The light from the setting sun illuminated the Seeker’s face, set against the bruised sky behind her. 

“There are many things I cannot explain in this world, that does not make them wrong. I can’t explain why the sun rises and sets each day, but that does disprove it happening.”

Cassandra’s jaw clenched. “Do not be glib in this.”

“I’m not,” Roslyn said sharply, flexing her hands. Her aura felt sluggish and uncomfortable, and the needling pain in her temples had returned with a vengeance. “I caused the explosion at the Conclave. I am responsible for the Divine’s death.” She forced herself to hold her friend’s gaze, to ensure that she understood who was responsible for her pain. “You were right the first time, Cassasndra. It was my fault.”

Cassandra’s expression flickered between anger and disbelief. “No. I do not accept this.”

“Accept it or not, it’s true.”

Leliana’s face was inscrutable as she said, “You claim this…Nightmare showed you your memories. That it told you it had fabricated the lie that you were chosen by Andraste. How do you know that this is not another lie?”

“I saw it. I _felt_ it. I—” She exhaled sharply, wanting to slam her fist into the wall again. “I can’t explain it to someone who isn’t a dreamer, but—”

“Dreamer?” Leliana cut in, eyes narrowing. 

Roslyn swallowed the knot in her throat. “Tevinter used to call them somniari. They—I can alter the Fade, shape it to my will.”

“I know what dreamers are,” Cassandra said, voice low. 

Roslyn let out a sharp laugh. “Of course you do.” She was a Seeker of Truth. She would know all about dreamers, and how to kill them. “The point is that I know when something is manufactured in the Fade. I can recognize demons and their lies right away. This wasn’t a lie.”

The courtyard was silent for a long time. Cassandra seemed to be fighting the urge to pace, breathing through her nostrils. Leliana simply stared at Roslyn, her cold blue eyes unrelenting in their scrutiny. 

“The will of the Maker is beyond mortal understanding,” Leliana said quietly, taking a deep, steadying breath. “We cannot know what He meant to happen in the Temple of Sacred Ashes that day. Or what the reasoning beneath your arrival to the Black City was meant to convey.”

Roslyn stared. She couldn’t be serious, could she?

“I do not believe that you intended to kill Justinia,” Leliana continued, voice growing stronger. “In fact, it sounds as if you were trying to save her. Not only that, but you interrupted Coryphea’s ritual and thereby saved the world. You destroyed the Temple of Sacred Ashes, true, but what might have happened if she had entered the Fade and not you? Do you even know?”

An image of a castle sundered by red veins, a plane of smoke and ash, flashed before her eyes. 

“You are not responsible for the actions of others, Roslyn,” Cassandra said softly, stepping forward as if to comfort her. 

“You don’t understand,” Roslyn said, backing away. 

“What do you want us to say?” Cassandra threw her hands up in the air. “Do you want us to denounce you, strip you of your rank? Disband the Inquisition? Do you honestly think that would help?”

Roslyn kept her mouth shut even as inside she screamed. She wanted them to understand that she was the source for all of this chaos. That she was responsible for killing the woman they’d both loved and respected. She wanted them to blame her, to shout at her, to condemn her for _something_. She needed _someone_ to acknowledge the fact that she was not some innocent bystander in all this.

Leliana seemed to read her thoughts. “I told you when you accepted this role that you would become a target. Such is the price of leadership.”

The sounds of the fortress seemed to roar up around Roslyn’s ears. Her armor felt tight and hot, and every instinct she had told her to run. To jump off the nearest ledge and throw herself into the air. 

“Is this your way of stepping down?” Leliana asked in a chipped tone. “Will you take this blame onto yourself as a justification to surrender your power? I will put all of us in an awkward position, as you still hold the mark—”

“Leliana,” Cassandra started.

“No, Cassandra. If she is too afraid to carry this burden—”

Roslyn took a step toward her spymaster, anger rising up in the midst of her shame. “You have no idea what kind of _burden_ I have carried. You couldn’t possibly know what it was like—”

“To watch a friend die while you stood by and did nothing?” Leliana answered, quick as an arrow. “To know that your belief in something larger than yourself was unfounded? To be betrayed by an understanding built upon a lie? You’ll find that I do, Inquisitor.”

It took Roslyn a moment to find her voice, to try and put into words what she felt in her heart. “This is…” She trailed off, eyes burning. 

“Unbearable,” Cassandra murmured. “To be held up as a hero when others fall. To know that your action, or inaction, leads to more chaos no matter what you do.” She seemed to choose her words carefully, shooting Leliana a hard look before she continued, “You are young—”

“Don’t—”

“You are,” Cassandra said, forcefully. Steel flashed in her eyes as she continued, “Trust that there are others who understand the cost your role will take. Others who can _help_ , if you only allow them to.”

“How can you be all right with this?” Roslyn said, blinking back tears. 

Cassandra sighed, a pained, tired smile tugging at her lips. “Because I know you did not mean for any of this to happen.”

“That doesn’t make any difference. I should be held _accountable_ for my actions.”

“Do you want my forgiveness? You have it.”

Roslyn shook her head. “I don’t deserve it.”

“That is not for you to decide.” Leliana’s expression slipped, sympathy coloring her voice. “Let the past die. Justinia told me that, once, when I was questioning my worth. There was a time I thought I could never stand by her side, with every terrible thing I have done in my life. She told me that it did not matter what we did before, but what we choose to do. What we continue to choose to believe.”

“I’m not your Herald,” Roslyn managed, wiping tears from her cheeks. “I never was.”

“You are,” Cassandra murmured. “You will always be.”

Roslyn stepped away, turning again to face the sunset. She watched it dip beneath the horizon, watched the warmth bleed from the world. 

They were right, of course. She was looking for a way out, a punishment, a release from the guilt reshaping her soul. For someone else to acknowledge the self-loathing, and shame. 

But she would not step down. That had never entered her mind. She was the Inquisitor. She had no intention of abdicating her role until Coryphea was destroyed. 

_To whatever end._

She would have to carry this guilt alone, then. 

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured, not knowing if she were apologizing for Justinia, for the Conclave, for expecting something from them which they would not give. 

“There is nothing to be sorry for,” Cassandra said gently. She walked up beside her, and rested a hand on her arms where they were crossed over her chest. “Believe what you will, but this is your life now. It will not get any easier.”

Roslyn nodded, and drew herself up. 

“Have you told anyone else about this?” Leliana asked, watching the pair of them with something that looked almost like jealousy, or longing. 

Roslyn took a deep breath, and shook her head. “Only…Solas.”

Confirmation flickered in her spymaster’s gaze. “I think we can trust him to be discrete. We cannot let this spread. I am surprised Coryphea has not already leaked it herself.”

“What is she going to do?” Cassandra scoffed. “Send out pamphlets?”

“Orlais,” Roslyn said, gathering together the shreds of her composure. “The Nightmare said she was going to cripple Orlais.”

A moment of silence.

“How?” Leliana asked.

“I don’t know. I’m guessing it wouldn’t be too hard, with the civil war already dividing the country down the center.”

Her ice blue eyes retreated, calculating. “No, it would not. Before we left, Josephine heard gossip of a peace summit between Celene and Gaspard in a few months. I wonder if we should not attempt to procure you an invitation.”

Her anxiety at attending anything involving Orlesian politics was a small, overshadowed thing. She made herself nod. “That’s probably why she’s been laying low, trying to get her agents into the Empire.”

“When we return to Skyhold, we shall get to work.” 

Out of the corner of her eye, Roslyn saw the other women share a pointed glance.

“There remains the matter of the Grey Wardens.”

Roslyn shoved the last of her self-loathing and doubt down deep into her heart, drawing on the cold steel Fiona had cultivated over their many years of working together. “They can’t get away with this.”

“I would agree,” Cassandra said coldly. 

“How far does our authority reach when it comes to them?”

Leliana hesitated, her true feelings coloring her sharp voice. “In truth, no one can say. The Wardens are usually held above the jurisdiction of kings and queens. They are subject to no one, in theory. However,” she added softly, “neither is the Inquisition. We have an ally in King Alistair, and a few minor nobles of Orlais. If your decision did not encroach upon the sovereignty of the Empire or Ferelden, I do not think you are bound by any higher power. your choice is your own.”

Roslyn’s heart beat swiftly in her chest, the wind off the moors whistling ominously past her ears. She knew without asking that this was her choice, and hers alone, to make. Leliana was biased in this regard, and would not advise her either way, while Cassandra had made a point to step back from any decision-making since Therinfal Redoubt. 

She would be responsible, whatever her choice. 

Anger rose slowly in the back of her mind. The Calling had been false, yes, but Clarel had still endangered the lives of her men on a mad scheme. If Roslyn and the Inquisition had not arrived there in time, there might have been more damage, the tremors might not have stopped.

They had been tricked, but they were still responsible for their actions and intent. 

_Someone should be held responsible._

 

~  ✧ ~

 

The next morning saw the return of rain. It was soft, barely more than a drizzle, but it stirred fog along the ground. It seeped up through the broken fortress, curling around the crumbling walls and ancient statues which time had wiped of all recognizable features. 

Roslyn stood on a raised platform above the crowd gathered below. Three times in her life, she had stood before so many people. Three times, she had fought the wealth of discomfort at being so perfectly visible. 

This was the first time she didn’t feel the urge to run. 

“Grey Wardens,” she called, raising her voice above the soft whisper of rain, the distant rumbling of thunder, “you are here to witness the judgement of your leader, Clarel de Chanson.”

She waited as the old woman was brought to the front of the platform, unbound, by Roslyn’s request. The chains to bind a mage of her power were waiting, but Roslyn hoped she would not need to use them. Clarel had, so far, complied with her guards. 

“Warden Commander Clarel, you are hereby charged with conspiring, unknowingly, with the sorcerer Bard, and his mistress, the Elder One, with the intent to unleash an unknown entity onto the innocent people of Ferelden regardless of the consequences, and the murder of your fellow wardens. How do you plead?”

The old woman raised her head, her expression one of supreme fatigue. “Guilty, your worship.”

Roslyn had expected an outbreak of muttering, of denial, but there was nothing—only the silence of the crowd.

A caw echoed over the crowd, and Roslyn looked up to see a large raven watching her from the tower looming over the gathered wardens and soldiers. Through the rain and mist, she caught a flash of green. The hair on the back of her neck rose. 

She took a deep breath and stared directly at Clarel as she said, “For the crimes for which you have plead guilty, I, Roslyn Trevelyan, Inquisitor—,” her voice broke slightly, but she forced herself to keep going, “Herald of Andraste, hereby sentence you to death by beheading.”

Her eyes never left Clarel, and through the light rain, Roslyn thought she saw the ghost of a smile pull at the old woman’s lips. 

“Do you,” she continued, feeling the eyes of every single person in this ruined fortress, along with the ghosts who lingered in the crumbled arches, the shadows of the tower where fire had burned through the remnants of its once austere grandeur, “before your peers and those you once commanded, accept your sentence?”

Clarel held her gaze, something of sadness in her lined eyes. “I do. It has been an honor to give my life to the Wardens. I ask only that you spare those brave warriors who followed me. They did their duty, as I thought I was doing mine.”

Roslyn drew her sword, the steel feeling heavy in her grip—she’d had to practice that morning, having gotten used to her own blade of light and force. Her hand clenched, the only sign of weakness she allowed herself. 

The words sounded hollow to her ears as she said, “Maker guide you.”

She stepped forward, every strike of her boots against the wet stone magnified, final—like a drum accompany her own march to the gallows. 

A small, shrill voice in the back of her mind screamed at what she was about to do. Fighting, protecting herself and others, was one thing. Though uncountable death hung on her shoulders, this was the first she had walked toward it with clear eyes. This was the first time she could see the humanity and acceptance in the other person’s gaze. 

And though some might call it justice, it felt more like murder. 

But someone had to pay for what happened down beneath the earth. She was only sorry that it couldn’t be her. 

Clarel bent her head in acceptance, eyes closed, lips moving in a silent prayer. 

Roslyn held what she was about to do in her mind, held it up like a torch. She acknowledged it, because to do anything less was to pretend that she had no choice. She was choosing to murder this woman who sounded like Fiona, who had thought she was doing only what her oath and honor demanded of her. 

As Roslyn raised her sword, she had the quick, arrowing thought that she could spare this woman. She could choose mercy. 

But the girl who had spared the templars felt like a stranger to her now, and there was nothing in her heart today which might soften her anger. 

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, watched the slight dip in Clarel’s head, and swung down her sword. 

The head hit the stone with a dull thud and splatter of blood. Streams of it colored the rain-drenched dais. Lapped up against her boots. 

Roslyn felt the horror and disgust rise in the back of her mind, felt her stomach churn and her hands start to shake, but she shoved them aside. 

She would punish herself later for this. Now…

“The Grey Wardens are no longer welcome in Southern Thedas,” she called, casting her gaze over the crowd. “You have proven yourselves capable of being corrupted and manipulated. The Elder One’s power only grows, and you cannot be trusted to fulfill your oaths without oversight.” She paused, finding Aeducan and Rainier in the center middle of the crowd. Carver Hawke stood behind them, his eyes shadowed. “That being said, I welcome any who would stand with us. The fight is far from over. But understand this if you choose to remain, for the duration of this war, you would not answer to Weisshaupt. You would answer only to the Inquisition. If you cannot suspend your oath, then you will leave.”

No murmurs greeted her invitation, no whispers, no shifting. They simply waited, and watched. The silence grew unbearable. 

“You have until tomorrow’s sunrise,” she said when she could no longer stand their scrutiny. “Any wardens remaining south of the Waking Sea will be expelled. On pain of death.”

She turned her back, and nodded at the wardens waiting to take their commander’s body, and left the crowd to their decision. 

And only when she was out of sight and alone, did she empty her stomach onto the wet, crumbling stone.

 

~  ✧ ~

 

The night sky over the Hinterlands was clear and bright. Constellations hung in the firmament. For the first time in months, Roslyn traced them as she slipped out of the Grand Forest Villa and into the hills and valleys surrounding it. 

No one had tried to stop her. The guards had only bowed their heads, wondering, no doubt, what their Inquisitor was doing wandering the woods and rocky valleys so late at night. 

She’d thought about seeking out Solas, spending her hours until sunrise with him. But it would be a distraction, and she didn’t want that to color their newly cemented…something. He had given her space in the week since Ostagar. Part of her loved him for it, while part of her wanted to lose herself in him, to let him take away the sight of Clarel’s head hitting the ground, the silent accusation of the wardens looking up at her. She didn’t know what she wanted. The person she’d been before stepping into the Deep Roads would have shouted obscenities at her for going back on that certainty she’d felt in Andraste’s chapel. 

Ninety-three wardens had offered themselves to her. The rest were leaving for Weisshaupt, watched closely by Leliana’s agents. 

Aeducan and Rainier were amongst those who had stayed, along with, to her immense surprise, Carver. She guessed it had more to do with his sister than wanting to follow her, but she was not about to deny him this. 

She was the reason his brother was dead. She wasn’t about to deny him anything. 

Nathaniel Howe, as the senior-most warden left—Stroud had died in the fighting, another name to add to her list—had acquiesced to her request at once, organizing his people and leaving before most of the Inquisition had awoken. 

Roslyn had watched the procession in the pre-dawn light, and felt nothing. No anger, no justice, no righteous spite. What anger she’d had had died with Clarel. Now there was only guilt.

She traced the path, well-worn by now, to the table stone in Lady Shayna’s valley. To the stones standing around it, and the soft, swaying grass. The smell was the same, overripe berries and the fresh Ferelden earth. Autumn bit in the cool wind dancing along her neck, the first hints of snow seeming to peel off the mountains to the west. 

The table stone was exactly as she remembered, runes carved into its worn down surface, edges smoothed by time. 

She clenched her marked hand, let a bit of the Fade slide into her mind, and felt the crack of thunder, the smell of burning lightning. She heard the distant pounding of feet and the echoing call of a horn amidst the storm. 

Her eyes closed against the fear blooming bright at the back of her mind. She would not let this fear win. Not again. 

The anchor responded to her intention, and split the Veil. She did not sunder it, or tear it, but simply cut a small path through which she could slip. Glorious sensation made her exhale, her chest humming with brilliant possibility. With power. 

As she had every time she’d entered the Fade since returning to the surface, she waited for the wolf. It had vanished before, seemingly dead. It might return again. Part of her wondered if it hadn’t truly died, only been severed from her for good, given agency of its own. 

Part of her knew that she’d killed it. Just as she’d killed Hawke.

The Avvar runes shone metallic in the soft green light of the Fade. They danced into the air, lifting up and spinning when she moved them around her fingers. Meaning brushed against her thoughts, telling her the story of a bright warrior who had led her people to safety, who had fallen in love with a sky goddess. 

_Tyrdda_. 

The name flew into her mind, clear as a bird on the wind. Tyrdda Bright-Axe. A hero of the Avvar. 

Roslyn frowned, conjuring up a still image of the mage she had seen on the other side of this table stone drenched in the blood of a severed dragon head. 

Hard lines cut through her weathered skin, skin bronzed by the sun. Two thick metal bands wrapped around her muscled arms, cutting into her skin. Rain drenched hair fell around her head in ropes, just like…

Roslyn stared, certainty forming like a sword before her eyes. Despite the interest she was drawing from nearby spirits, she conjured an image of the Alamarri mage, the first woman she had seen in her vision in Val Royeaux. 

The old woman formed, standing proud with her shoulders held back, her one golden eye gleaming like it had caught the sun. It was harder to understand the confusing swirl of impressions she gave off. Less like birds and more like drifts of smoke. 

_Hildr. Dawn-Mother. Wanderer of the Crystal Black._

A long passage over water. Fear and hope bound up in one. Legacy. Regret. Failure. After a moment the meaning grew tangled, and it hurt to try and reason it out, so she let it go. 

Roslyn looked between them, comparing the Alamarri mage’s hair to Tyrdda Bright-Axe. The same ropes of hair, the beads and rings of carved metal. 

The same nose. 

Slightly-hooked, and prominent. 

Echoes of a similarly broad chin. 

Her heart pounded as she leaned forward, looking for other similarities between the Alamarri leader and the blood mage standing before her. 

Sure enough, they looked…if not related, at least similar. She tried to recall Rhaella’s features, to see if this were simply a common thread through the Alamarri peoples, but the blonde augur was slight, her features fine, like a bird’s.

Swallowing her mounting tension, Roslyn summoned an image of the high priestess. 

Head shaved, skin sallow, features painted in black—features which bore a stark similarity to the others, if they were finer, and her skin was darker. 

No name came to her now. Almost nothing, but an image of huge, curling horns, and a woman cross-legged. The impression of searching, searching, for something…hidden. Held back. A mystery. 

Roslyn looked between the three women, the beginnings of a thought pricking at that blank wall in the back of her mind. 

Hands shaking, she conjured an image of Andraste. 

The similarities were harder to find, but they were there—in the firm jaw, the long, prominent, slightly-hooked nose, the shape of her dark grey eyes. 

Energy unfurled behind her, the shifting aura of a powerful demon, but she didn’t turn. She couldn’t look away from the four women displayed before her, trying to see for the answer. They were related. They had to be, but what did that…

“You’re farther along than I thought you’d be,” a low, gravely voice said beside her, recognizing him at once though she didn’t acknowledge him.

If the demon wanted to kill her, she welcomed him to try. 

“Farther along than any of them, I can tell you that much. Though, you’ve had more opportunities. And you’re better at holding onto your sanity.” A pained note had crept into his voice, making it sound almost—normal. 

Roslyn looked at him out of the corner of her eye, noting that he stared intently at Andraste. His green eyes were hard, tight. 

“I expected you to fall apart in the first few months, but you’ve managed to hold on for a while, now. You might just make it through.”

“Tell me.”

He smiled, tsked his tongue. “Not that simple, my friend.”

“Why not?”

He brushed an invisible mote of dust off the sharp shoulder of his jacket—the same jacket he’d worn in Val Royeaux. “Because the world is a cruel and meaningless—” She rounded on him, and he backed away at once. “Easy, beastie, you decided not to kill me once. You wouldn’t want to make a mistake now.”

“I _want_ answers.”

“I know you do, and I would like nothing more than to give them all to you.” Anticipation gleamed in his eyes, green brightening and smoking around his plain human face, anger curling his words, making them bite. “Trust me, Roslyn. I have more at stake in you figuring all this out than you realize.”

She took a deep breath, willing the Fade back to normal. The images of the women disappeared, replaced by that of the winged woman. 

White skin shining like marble, black eyes darker than the Void, short, silver hair tousled in a frozen breeze—Roslyn saw with a jolt that her ears were pointed. 

An elf?

An elf. 

Just like the Nightmare.

“There are some magics which are far older than this world. Far deeper, and far more complex than even their makers could understand.” The demon smiled slightly at the image of the winged woman, before dispelling her with a wave. “Tell me, have you tried to tell anyone else about these little visions of yours?”

Roslyn’s jaw clenched. 

“And how did that work out for you?”

“Poorly.”

“Right. There’s a reason for that.”

“Remember,” she muttered. “That’s what she keeps telling me.”

The demon’s eyes narrowed. “If I were you, I would stop listening to her. In fact, word of advice? Stop listening to anyone who just shows up and offers you free advice.”

Roslyn arched an eyebrow.

“Frightfully confusing, isn’t it?” He grinned and slid his hands into his pockets, surveying the surrounding Fade with an almost appreciative eye. “Here’s what I can offer you, for now. Help defeating that jumped up magister who thinks she wants to become a god.”

“Why?”

“So many questions,” he purred. “You’re really living up to that new title of yours.”

“Why should I trust you when you’re offering me nothing more than the Nightmare?” A lance of fear slipped down her spine. 

Something sparked in his eyes, and the air surrounding him went dark with purple and red smoke. “I’ll forgive you this once,” he said, dangerously low, “but _never_ compare me to that monster again.”

Roslyn watched him, struck by the fact that she did trust him. Or some part of her did. After the initial fear of him being a demon had faded, she felt nothing of the same unease or dread. 

And since meeting her the first time in the Fade, he had never again tried to influence her. 

“You said you could tell me about the white crystals,” she said, watching him carefully.

“They’re soul gems. Useful for a variety of purposes, like unlocking things which have proven otherwise impossible to unlock, magnifying one’s aura, and,” he paused, self-satisfaction curling his lips, “of most help to you, catching and holding a bit of one’s soul.”

The gem on her chest burned. _A bit of one’s soul…_

“Whose soul is trapped in my gem?” she asked, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. 

His green eyes flashed. “I think you already know the answer to that, my friend.”

She had thought it must be hers, to keep her from dying when Alexius sent her through time. But now…

The fierce burning when the winged woman came to her. 

_Remember_.

“What is she?” she asked, her voice soft. 

The demon sighed. “Now that, I cannot tell you. Chiefly because I don’t truly know.” Darkness flickered over his expression. “You are not the only one having to unravel your own mind, and I’ve been at this a lot longer than you.”

“Well then what use are you?” she snapped, taking a few steps back and banishing a few wisps who had thought to pick at her emotions. “If you can’t give me answers, why the fuck am I talking to you?”

“Don’t ask me,” he said casually. “You could easily shield yourself. I can’t come to you if you don’t want me to. After what happened with the Nightmare, I think you know better than to let anyone else go poking around in your mind. You’re powerful enough now. Even without your wolf’s help.”

“Explain _that_ , at least.”

The demon held her gaze, something like discomfort shining in his eyes. “No, I won’t.” He held up his hands before she could press him. “There are answers I could give you that would only put you in danger, if you knew them. Ignorance is keeping you safe right now. You’ve drawn a few key players to your board, Roslyn. They seem content to wait, for the moment, but do not mistake me.” He stepped toward her, his voice dropping into a low rasp. “There are forces at work around you that have been waiting a long, _long_ time to make their moves. Right now, most of them see you as a momentary flash in an otherwise ages long light show. You seem to be focus of their curiosity. You can’t help but be,” he added, almost fondly. “ _That_ is power in its own right. Don’t throw it away so quickly by playing your hand. Let them underestimate you. Let them think you know nothing they don’t want you to know. It might just keep you alive long enough to change the game.”

“You can’t expect me to just walk away from this blind,” she muttered, coloring the Fade white with her anger. The soft grass erupted in a flurry of blood-red flowers, smelling of rust and wrath. “You can’t expect me to _accept_ this.”

“Accept it or don’t, I don’t control your choices,” he countered, voice flat. “But when it comes to games of strategy, my dear, you have _always_ lost.”

She frowned, something in the back of her mind ringing sharp. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

The demon’s jaw worked, and he shook his head. “I don’t know. But it sounded right.”

They stood for a moment in silence, both of them staring at each other with guarded frustration. 

“What do I call you?” she asked awkwardly, hating the fact that she was even entertaining this idea. 

He cocked his head, as if weighing his answer. “Imshael, I suppose.”

There was a beat of silence as she registered the name.

“You’re joking.”

His smile grew languorous and lithe, a hint of the desire demon she’d first thought him to be shining through his plain face. “You’ve heard of me, have you?”

_I’m talking to one of the Forbidden Ones. Maker’s mercy…_

“So,” she skated over the conflicting emotions in her chest, anger and frustration, and not a small amount of misplaced awe, “what do I do now?”

Imshael shrugged, the gesture so _normal_ that she had a hard time pairing it with what she knew of one of the first demons ever to give the secret of blood magic to mages in Tevinter. “Save the world, presumably. With my help.” His teeth flashed white. “And that is where I must leave you, I’m afraid. You made quite a bit of noise down there in the dark. Ruffled a few feathers.” His expression froze, and a rough laugh burst from his lips. “Oh, that’s rather funny. Pity you can’t understand why. Anyway,” he skated on, seeing her hard glare, “I’ve got to clean up your mess. Don’t worry, you’ll see me again. Sooner, rather than later, I hope. I have a feeling you’d object to the kind of distractions I can come up with when left unattended.”

“When should I expect to hear from you again?” she asked, frowning. 

“It goes both ways, beastie.” He winked, and stepped into a cloud of purple sparks. “Feel free to call whenever you like.”

Roslyn stared at the space he vanished into, waiting until the Fade reverted to its normal state of blissful calm. 

For a long time, she stood, waiting for her mind to cave in on itself. For the reality of her life to slam down into her like an anvil, and break her for good. 

But it didn’t. Instead, she was left only with a sense of lingering dread. 

Imshael. A desire demon older than the Imperium itself, was now her ally. And there was no part of her who even questioned his offer of help. 

Every instinct she had _should_ have been screaming in outrage. All her better judgement had been flipped in the Deep Roads. What she’d thought was certain—her faith in Andraste, her faith in herself—it had all been snatched away in a moment. She was certain of nothing now, except that something was still missing. Some piece of her was still locked in that city of black glass where the Nightmare had trapped her and made her feel weak. 

In the echoing reality of her thoughts, she couldn’t conjure enough energy to care whether Imshael meant her harm or not. She couldn’t trust anyone, let alone herself. What did it matter anymore?

The only thing that mattered now was defeating Coryphea. If Imshael helped her do that, she would not refuse his help, and the Maker damn her for it.

She stepped back into the waking world, bracing herself against the table stone as her body strained to conform to the lack of sensation. Every time it seemed to take longer and longer to adjust. Her fingers fumbled for a vial that was not hanging on her waist. She’d left her belt behind at the Grand Forest Villa. Gritting her teeth, she straightened, and brought her aura to bear. It helped, somewhat, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that the waking world would never feel right again.

Eyes locked on the table stone, she sent a short, sharp blast of force into her palm. 

Roslyn exhaled at the relief as magic suffused her body. The stone cracked and split, dust billowing up around her fingers like mist. She stared at the sundered table stone, the memory of the dragon’s blood flowing freely over her hands and feet. 

_To war, then_ , she thought, and walked into the clear, cold night. 


	54. No Place for a Hero (Epilogue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Short Change Hero" by The Heavy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GjTTB6yII4o&t=0s&index=57&list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S%22)

Hawke was dead.

Or it certainly felt like he had died. 

There had been a few moments in his life where he had come close. Stumbling out of the Viscount’s Keep with his intestines near hanging out of his stomach and the Arishok on the ground behind him. Being surprised by a gang of thugs his first week off the boat in Kirkwall, drunk off his ass and vomiting up an entire barrel of whiskey on the unlucky bastard who’d died after all of his friends. Nearly getting mauled to death by a bear outside of Lothering before his father found him when he was thirteen. Staring up at his father after he’d been healed just enough not to bleed out on his mother’s shabby rug. 

There were a few other moments, most of them purposefully erased by a night of heavy drinking and fucking until the memory was replaced by one somewhat less messy and almost always more pleasant. 

But this—lying on the ground in the Fade, using one of the varterral’s broken limbs as a pillow—had to be the _most_ improbable. 

Funny, really, if he looked at it askew. He had journeyed into the Fade with the renowned and ruthless Inquisitor, and gotten left behind. 

Or he hoped he had. 

Roslyn was a smart girl. She knew when to cut and run. 

Well, that was a lie. She was a hero. The proper kind. Odds were, she’d stayed behind to find his sorry ass. 

Though, getting skewered with a varterral’s pincers might trump even her savior streak. 

He could do with those fiery eyes right about now. That beautiful, angry face. That feeling of confidence which seemed to exude from her every pore. Yes, they’d done right in choosing her. Fat lot of good it would do their Inquisition to put all their hopes on a washed up drunk like him. 

A washed up drunk who apparently couldn’t even be bothered to die correctly.

Hawke frowned down at his stomach, a mass of red and torn flesh, looking more like bloody steak than anything else. 

“Bleed out,” he groaned, letting his ringing head fall back against the varterral. “Or wake up, you, and finish me off.” He thudded his head a few more times against the beast just to be sure, but it wasn’t moving. 

Why had he fought back once they both fell from the bloody sky? He’d popped off the mountain, popped down to the ground, and then fought. Like an _idiot_. 

He shouldn’t have won, of course. It was just dumb luck that he’d managed to hide behind a spurt of rock and distract the poor beast into impaling itself. Sure, he’d broken a few more limbs, gotten in a couple of decent shots, even without his staff, but he shouldn’t have _survived_. 

It _was_ funny, when he really thought about it. Even in death, he was still a disappointment. 

“Hello-oo,” he called, unable to raise his voice louder than a rough crack. “Any demons out there willing to eat me? Or…fuck me to death, or something?” He grinned, coughed, felt salty blood coat his lips. “I’ve got a few shapes in mind for the first desire demon to come and claim me. Big hips, gorgeous breasts. Skin like salted caramel. Also, I have her permission. She’d be dead chuffed to hear I fucked a desire demon who looked like her.”

Oh, Isabela. He missed her. She was much better off ruling the Rivaini seas far, far away from him, of course, but Maker’s balls, he would have liked to see her again before the end. That gold-toothed smile, those sleepy, painted eyes, that rough, lickable skin, that dagger sharp wit, that sad, distance tilt to her lips when she thought no one was watching. He sighed. No, she’d done much better than him in her choice of Merrill. It was obnoxious really. He’d fallen in love with someone else, and she’d moved on to someone who was, arguably, the best person he was ever likely to meet.

He hoped they were happy together. Someone should be.

He tried his best not to think of Anders. Of course his best had always been shit, so he thought of him anyway. 

His smile. His real smile, not the empty one he’d worn too often, before the Chantry. The one that tasted of warm candlelight and sour ale and lightning, of nights spent talking and holding each other, of safety. Of home. 

“Aw fuck,” he murmured, tears spilling down his cheeks. 

He let his thoughts drift, staring up at the shifting green sky, waiting for the end. He thought of Varric, and how sorry he was he’d never said everything he’d meant to say to that old bastard. He thought of Fenris, of his frustratingly perfect ass, and Gemma, whose ass he would never dream of objectifying because he liked his balls where they were, thank you—and how they were probably already well on their way to breaking Tevinter over their knees. He thought of how sorry he was that he’d never see it fall. He thought of Aveline and that wonderful idiot she’d married. How he would never meet their children, if Donnic could ever figure out how to bear children for her. He even thought of Sebastien long enough to smile and mutter, “Ponce.” He thought of his dog, his sweet, beautiful Mabari named Princess. And he cried. 

And he thought, of course, of Bethany and Carver. And that hurt more than the varterral’s claws. He thought of how, after all these years, they were finally alone. Maybe they’d even be better off. But fuck him if he didn’t wish it were different. He didn’t pretend that he might have become better. He’d had long enough to prove them both right on that front. 

No, he wished he could have seen the people they’d grow up to be. He wished he could have seen them both old, and if not happy, then whole. Safe. 

He did not think of his mother and father, because he’d already spent enough time grieving for them. More than enough time. 

Peace settled over him as he laid there, waiting for death. The famed Champion of Kirkwall brought down at last. 

He thought of Anders with his hair mussed and loose, his eyes half-closed in the morning sunlight. He thought of spiced dates which stained his pink lips purple. He thought of the lean line of him, fuller after some time spent in Hawke’s home. He thought of his pale, scarred skin. Of the sparse blonde hair which used to peak out of his trousers when he stretched. He thought of the annoyed, begrudging smile he’d gifted Hawke after every one of his stupid, inane jokes. He thought of the whispered song he used to sing when he thought no one was watching. He even thought of that damned stick-in-the-mud Justice, whom he’d actually grown to like before the end. 

He thought of the dark circles under Anders’s eyes. He thought of the slow, painful losing of him. He remembered the acceptance, and defeat, in the slumped line of his shoulders as he turned and vanished into the smoke after the Chantry had exploded, and Hawke had made the biggest mistake of his life. 

He continued to think of Anders, replaying every lovely, wonderful, horrible, painful moment, so long that he began to wonder when, exactly, he would actually die. Surely it should have happened by now. 

Hawke sat up to look down at his stomach, and froze. 

Sitting up should not be possible. In fact, moving at all should have cause him quite a bit more pain than it did. His body hurt, sure, it hurt like the Void itself had fucked him raw and shat him out its ass, but it wasn’t the cold, dull ache of death. It was bright, and hot. And it was receding.

It was, in fact, exactly how he’d felt when Roslyn had healed him before. That too full brightness as her eyes had gleamed with light and white sparks had swarmed into him like a hive of radiant bees. 

Sure enough, the skin over his stomach, _over_ , mind, and not in pieces, was raw and red and pulsing. But it was there. Where it hadn’t been the last time he’d looked. 

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” He pushed himself upright, spewing out curses as every part of him screamed in defiance. Looking slowly over his shoulder, he waited for the varterral to discover that it too was miraculously recovered.

But it looked just as it had before. Silver blood spewed out across the ground. Limbs bent in ways that rock and bark should not have bent. Its eyes dark, and lifeless.

He shoved himself up to his feet. And promptly fell down again. It took him another quarter hour, but he managed to stay upright, using one of the broken limbs as a crutch. He flexed his hands, and felt a strange kind of prickling come over him, vibrating, trembling, but not in weakness. Drifts of white light leapt up from the tips of his fingers, and he frowned. “That’s new,” he muttered darkly. “And not entirely reassuring.”

He still felt like himself, but there was something…off. Like everything inside him had been shifted ever so slightly to the left. 

In what was probably a stupid idea, he nicked himself on the varterral’s pincer, and looked at his blood. It answered him, like it always had, a comforting presence wrapping around his mind like a wool blanket. The Fade did not like the blood magic, it turned out, and seemed to disapprove of him, but there was nothing…wrong with his magic. Just…off. 

He sucked on his finger, closing the cut, and shuffled back a few paces. 

“Well,” he sighed. “This is an interesting turn of events, Garrett. It seems the Maker is not done with using you as his butt monkey. Joy of joys.”

He squinted up at the mountain, where the Black City hung. With a jolt, he saw that it was shattered. The buildings were broken, glass shards circling the peak like a cloud of knives. There was no sign of Roslyn.

He grinned painfully. “That a girl.”

He sucked air through his teeth, struck with the sudden, enormous weight of _life_. Tiring, the whole business, really. Was he supposed to just walk around the Fade until he found a tear he could shove himself through? He grimaced and looked down at the varterral’s limb. “Look like it’s just you and—”

Purple light spiraled in a mad cacophony through the air, and he yelped. He landed flat on his ass as a familiar shape took form in the arcing light. 

Horns. Hair. A set of marvelous breasts. 

Really, what should he have expected?

“When I told you to leap into the abyss,” Flemeth crooned, giving the varterral a look of casual interest, “I did not mean literally.”

Hawke scowled. “Yes, well I’ve always been bit dim. Spell it out for me next time, you old bat.”

The witch looked back at him, her yellow eyes glinting like snakes. “You survived.”

“Apparently,” he muttered, hoisting himself back onto his feet again. “You’ve gotten old.”

She barked a laugh, causing his newly reformed stomach to lurch with unease. “Oh, boy, I forgot how charming you are.” Her smile cut as she murmured, “I seem to once again have found you in a bit of a predicament.”

“Ah yes, well, once is luck, twice is a coincidence—”

“And three times is my bare ass. What do you want, Flemeth?”

“You were much more polite the last time we met, Hawke.”

“Yes, well,” he said, frustration bleeding into his voice, “that was before you refused to teach me how to turn into a dragon, so we’re all a bit disappointed in each other’s choices.”

She laughed again, and cocked her head. “It’s not my form to teach, boy.”

He rolled his eyes, swallowing that surge of feeling in his body again, like it was amping up for something. “Are we about to strike a deal, then? Can you get me out of the Fade?”

“Sadly, I don’t have that kind of power.” She smiled, and Hawke couldn’t tell if she was lying or simply taking pleasure in his predicament. “I can, however, offer you something else. Information.”

“Oh, wow,” he deadpanned, “ _information_. How exciting.”

“You don’t want my knowledge? Fine.” She turned, giving him a last, lingering smile. “But I thought you’d jump at the chance to save your beloved from being consumed by that darkness that is riding him into an early grave.”

Hawke’s chest hollowed out as she continued to walk away. 

Justice?

He’d never gotten an honest answer out of Anders, of just where he ended and the spirit began. As far as he knew, there was no separating them. Not now. Not after so long. 

But if she didn’t mean Justice, she had to mean…

“Wait,” he shouted. 

Flemeth turned and gave him a sparkling smile. “A trade, boy. You help me, I tell you how to save your precious Anders.”

Hawke licked his lips, for the first time in nearly four years feeling hope kindle in his chest. Not from Justice, but from the other darkness which had taken root inside Anders long before he’d ever offered his body to a friend and gotten nothing but grief in return.

Ironic, really. To have died fighting to save Wardens, only to be offered another chance at the same bloody thing. 

Hawke saw his lover splayed out on the bed in his home in Hightown, face soft in sleep, the lines which had grown dark across his brow smoothed and supple. 

If he could give him that. If he could save him the pain…

He was alive for a reason. He hadn’t been able to help his brother and sister. He’d failed his best friends. He’d watched his parents die. He’d been responsible for the collapse of the only city he’d ever called home.

But maybe…maybe there was one thing he _could_ do. 

A mournful howl cut across the Fade, stirring Hawke into making a decision.

“All right,” he murmured. “What do you need me to do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of this part of Ascendant! I have no idea when I will be starting the next part, so please be patient with me <3 Feel free to come and bug me on tumblr (politely) if it's been a while and I haven't said anything about it. In the meantime, you can subscribe to the [Ascendant series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/640490). I might just put up a new chapter on this fic to catch all of the people still subbed, we'll see. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been commenting on this fic. You have no idea how much it means to me that anyone is still reading, and enjoying <3

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](https://eveninglottie.tumblr.com/) || [Youtube Playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLYYP1CurSOrSGmg_cazUGHibk1A0tMg-S) || [Spotify Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/eveninglottie/playlist/3jravocWceennDrZcrVWFO?si=8gnod7J3R7KV0NsnhgpvMQ)
> 
> [And if you want to see what Roslyn looks like, here is some lovely art of my baby <3](https://eveninglottie.tumblr.com/tagged/roslyn-art)


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